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POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


An anthology of justice and mercy 
for our kindred in fur and feathers 























POETRY’S PLEA FOR 
ANIMALS 

An anthology of justice and mercy 
for our kindred in fur and feathers 

Collected and edited by 

FRANCES E. CLARKE 

u 

With an introduction by 

EDWIN MARKHAM 7 
Author (if “The Man With the Hoe ” 


ILLUSTRATED BY W. F. STECHER 


> ? 
) > > 



BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 













Copyright, 1927 

By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


All Rights Reserved 


Poetry’s Plea for Animals 



Printed in U. S A. 

IttorwooO ipreas 

BERWICK & SMITH CO. 
Norwood, Mass. 


APR127T 

©C1 A967751- 





Dedicated 

To the memory and achievement of 

HENRY BERGH 

(1813 - 1888 ) 

First pioneer in humane work in the United States 

and 

Founder and first President of 
The American Society 
for the 

Prevention of Cruelty to Animals 


FOREWORD 


The quest for poems for this anthology has provided 
convincing proof that the poetry of the early English- 
speaking centuries is lacking in the spirit humane. 
Down to the middle of the eighteenth century no poet 
voices protest against cruelty to the lower creatures as 
did Montaigne in French literature, two hundred years 
before. Out of the ranks of the poets who sought in¬ 
spiration in nature, birds, and the more beautiful of the 
wild animals, as the deer, no champion of humaneness 
arises till the age of romanticism. Occasionally a gentle 
note is heard, but it is quickly lost in the mighty or¬ 
chestration of classical content and form. James 
Thomson in The Seasons makes ready the way. In his 
criticism of this work, Samuel Johnson remarks: “ The 
reader of The Seasons wonders that he never saw be¬ 
fore what Thomson shows him, and that he never felt 
what Thomson impresses.” 

Cowper and Burns are the first to denounce man’s in¬ 
humanity to birds and other animals, and even to the 
lowest forms of life. 

“ I would not enter on my list of friends, 

(Though graced with polish’d manners and 
fine sense, 

Yet wanting sensibility) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm,” 

declares Cowper. And Burns, with a sob in his voice, 
cries in The Wounded Hare: 

” Inhuman man! curse on thy barbarous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye.” 

• • 

Vll 


FOREWORD 


• • • 

Vlll 

In gentler strain Burns quickens sympathy for helpless 
creatures with here a line and there a line, and now 
and then an entire poem; while Cowper consecrates much 
of his verse to a cause that received no legal recogni¬ 
tion in his country till twenty-five years after his death. 

The poetry of the gentle William Blake is suffused 
with loving pity for the little inhabitants of earth and 
air. Byron in casual flashes, but especially in his vitu¬ 
perative fling at mankind in the epitaph to his dog 
Boatswain, testifies to his affectionate sympathy for 
animals. Coleridge’s masterpiece has for its theme: 

“ He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast.” 

But the humane trend in the poetry of the first half of 
the nineteenth century finds fullest expression in Words¬ 
worth’s nature poems. 

The Brownings, Tennyson, Swinburne, Christina 
Rossetti, William Morris, and Leigh Hunt, and lesser 
Victorian poets, have occasional verse pointedly humane. 

In America, Longfellow, Holmes, Emerson, and several 
humbler poets were awakening sentiment chiefly through 
legend. The Birds of Killingworth , The Emperor's 
Bird's Nest , The Bell of Atri, Walter von der Vogehceid 
are a few of Longfellow’s tales of justice. He states 
with characteristic sincerity: 

“ Among the noblest of the land, 

Though he may count himself the least, 

That man I honor and revere, 

Who, without favor, without fear, 

In the great city dares to stand 

The Friend of every friendless Beast.” 

Holmes pitied the caged lion. Emerson found a lesson 
in the brave gymnastics of the cheery little chickadee, 


FOREWORD 


IX 


and wrote The Titmouse; and in Forbearance, he asks 
his reading public: 

“ Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? ” 

But not till the twentieth century is the humane cause 
consummated in both British and American poetry. In 
England, Arthur Symons proclaims: 

“-When I hear 

Crying of oxen, that, in deadly fear, 

Rough men, with cruel dogs about them, drive 
Into the torture-house of death alive. 

How can I sit under a tree and read 
A happy idle book, and take no heed? ” 

Ralph Hodgson defines his attitude toward the 
world’s unthinking cruelty in his lovely lyric, Stupidity 
Street: 

“ I saw with open eyes 
Singing birds sweet 
Sold in the shops 
For the people to eat, 

Sold in the shops of 
Stupidity Street. 

I saw in vision 

The worm in the wheat, 

And in the shops nothing 
For people to eat; 

Nothing for sale in 
Stupidity Street.” 

And again in The Bells of Heaven: 

“ ’Twould ring the bells of Heaven 
The wildest peal for years. 

If Parson lost his senses 
And people came to theirs, 

And he and they together 
Knelt down with angry prayers 
For tamed and shabby tigers 
And dancing dogs and bears. 

And wretched, blind pit ponies, 

And little hunted hares.” 



X 


FOREWORD 


In the same slender volume, Poems , is The Bull. “ The 
poet,” says William Lyon Phelps in commenting on 
this poem in The Advance of English Poetry in the 
Twentieth Century , “ draws us for the moment from all 
other tragedies in God’s universe.” 

James Stephens, the Irish poet, sings his devotion 
with plaintive tenderness in poem after poem, The Cage , 
The Lark , Little Things , and The Snare , to list only a 
few. 

“ And I cannot find the place 
Where his paw is in the snare: 

Little one! Oh, little one! 

I am searching everywhere.” 

William H. Davies expresses his humane creed no¬ 
where else so succinctly as in the following lines: 

“ When I give poor dumb things my 
cares. 

Let all men know I’ve said my 
prayers.” 

Walter de la Mare in many a poem reveals a gentle 
understanding of “ little things,” as in The Mother 
Bird , The Titmouse , Summer Evening , Earth Folk , Five 
Eyes , and All But Blind. One poem of whimsical charm 
is Nicholas Nye, in which a child, perhaps child Walter 
de la Mare, holds silent and secret communion with a 
donkey, “ Lame of a leg and old.” In a concluding 
stanza their mutual regard attains perfect consumma¬ 
tion : 


** Seem to be smiling at me, he would, 

From his bush in the corner, of may,— 
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn. 
Knobble-kneed, lonely and grey; 


FOREWORD 


xi 


And over the grass would seem to pass 
’Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, 
Something much better than words between me 
And Nicholas Nye.” 

Occasionally Mr. de la Mare is frankly outspoken; to 
wit,—the opening lines of I Can't Abear: 

“ I can’t abear a Butcher, 

I can’t abide his meat. 

The ugliest shop of all is his, 

The ugliest in the street.” 

Again his sentiment makes playful threat, as when 
Nemesis, in Tit for Tat , stalks after Tom Noddy, who 
“ trod like a murderer through the green woods.” 

Thomas Hardy has dedicated many lines to the lowly 
wee inhabitants of his famous shire, declaring that 
posterity should know that “ he strove that such inno¬ 
cent creatures should come to no harm.” For the cele¬ 
bration in 1924, in London, of the centenary of The 
Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Ani¬ 
mals, the world’s oldest animal welfare organization, he 
wrote an ode, Compassion. The following are the open¬ 
ing and concluding stanzas: 

“ Backward among the dusky years 
A lonesome lamp is seen arise. 

Lit by a few fain pioneers 
Before incredulous eyes. 

We read the legend that it lights: 

‘ Why should throughout this land of historied rights 
Mild creatures, despot-doomed, bewildered, plead 
Their often hunger, thirst, pangs, prisonment, 

In deep dumb gaze more eloquent 
Than tongues of widest heed? * 

• ••••••• 

Cries still are heard in secret nooks 
Till hushed with gag or slit or thud; 

And hideous dens whereon none looks 
Are blotched with needless blood. 


FOREWORD 


• • 

xn 

But here, in battlings, patient, slow. 

Much has been won—more, maybe, than we know— 
And on we labour stressful. ‘Ailinon! ’ 

A mighty voice calls: ‘ But may the good prevail! ’ 
And ‘ Blessed are the merciful! ’ 

Calls yet a mightier one.” 

Rudyard Kipling through living individualities por¬ 
trayed in prose and verse in The Jungle Book has, with¬ 
out doubt, influenced reading interest in animal intel¬ 
ligence. Toomai of the Elephants , The White Seal , 
Tiger-Tiger , Letting in the Jungle , The Miracle of 
Purun Bhagat , Outsong in the Jungle , and “ Lukannon 99 
are unrivalled among masterpieces of their kind. 
“ Lukannon 99 pleads more powerfully for conservation 
in the seal industry than tons of propaganda. 

“Wheel down, wheel down to southward! Oh, Gooverooska go1 
And tell the Deep-Sea Viceroys the story of our woe; 

Ere, empty as the shark’s egg the tempest flings ashore, 

The Beaches of Lukannon shall know their sons no morel ” 

is the final warning. The Parade-Song of the Camp- 
Animals in its kineographic review of animal service in 
the British army receives the reader’s repeated applause 
as each division swings into line, from the cavalry 
horses, cantering to the tune of Bonnie Dundee , to the 
screw-gun mules, grateful if they arrive on a mountain 
height “ with a leg or two to spare! ” “ The Power of 
the Dog 99 evokes poignant reminiscence for every one 
who has loved and lost a dog. 

John Galsworthy arraigns the human race in Piti¬ 
ful. Each stanza is an indictment, to which incriminat¬ 
ing testimony compels “ This man of God’s ” to plead 
guilty. 

Norman Gale is one of the most generous contributors 
in poetry to the cause of animal -welfare. There is a 


FOREWORD 


• • • 
Xlll 

singing quality in the verses in A Merry-Go-Round of 
Song and A Flight of Fancies that makes one wonder 
why musical settings have not been written for them. 
His Collected Poems adds to his humanitarian contribu¬ 
tion such lyrics as A Bird in the Hand. A few lines 
are: 

“ Nay, polished beak, you are pecking a friend! 

Bird of the grassland, you bleed at the wing! 

Stay with me, love; in captivity mend 

Wrong that was wrought by the boy and his sling. 
Oh for a Priest of the Birds to arise. 

Wonderful words on his lips that persuade 
Reasoning creatures to leave to the skies 
Song at its purest a-throb in the glade! " 

The Quails, published in the London Mercury in 1921, 
and later in John Codings Squire’s Second Anthology 
of Modern Verse, proclaims a poet in passionate revolt 
against cruelty as the offspring of deplorable ignorance. 
The author is Francis Brett Young, British novelist and 
poet. In a prefatory note to The Quails, Mr. Young 
states: u In the South of Italy the peasants put out the 
eyes of a captured quail so that its cries may attract 
the flocks of spring migrants into their nets.” 

“ All through the night 

I have heard the stuttering call of a blind quail, 

A caged decoy, under a cairn of stones, 

Crying for light as the quails cry for love." 

These are the opening lines. They are followed by 
forty more as tender in their pathos, and then the con¬ 
cluding lines: 

“ Why should I be ashamed? Why should I rail 
Against the cruelty of men? Why should I pity. 

Seeing that there is no cruelty which men can image 
To match the subtle dooms that are wrought against them 
By blind spores of pestilence: seeing that each of us. 


xiv FOREWORD 

Lured by dim hopes, flutters in the toils of death 
On a cold star that is spinning blindly through space 
Into the nets of time? 

So cried I, bitterly thrusting pity aside, 

Closing my lids to sleep. But sleep came not, 

And pity, with sad eyes, 

Crept to my side, and told me 

That the life of all creatures is brave and pitiful 
Whether they be men, with dark thoughts to vex them. 

Or birds, wheeling in the swift joys of flight, 

Or brittle ephemerids, spinning to death in the haze 
Of gold that quivers on dim evening waters; 

Nor would she be denied. 

The harshness died 
Within me, and my heart 

Was caught and fluttered like the palpitant heart 
Of a brown quail, flying 
To the call of her blind sister, 

And death, in the spring night.” 

Another noteworthy poem by this young author is Bete 
Humaine in Five Degrees South. 

Alfred Noyes, G. K. Chesterton, Christopher Ben¬ 
son, Wilfred R. Childe, John Codings Squire, D. H. Law¬ 
rence, Harold Monro, Winifred M. Letts, and Dorothea 
MacKellar are among British poets who, in occasional 
poems, are arrayed on the side of pity and justice for 
animals. 

In America there seems to be a steadily increasing 
interest in the humane theme. Perhaps no poet chal¬ 
lenges attention more courageously than Henry Her¬ 
bert Knibbs, author of Riders of the Stars , Songs of the 
Outlands, Songs of the Trail , and Saddle Songs, volumes 
of western verse. He stands four square in his denun¬ 
ciation of “ Braves of the Hunt ” who go out with 

“.guides and gold and the polished 

tube of steel, 

Playing safe with the hunting-pack, the trap and the 
prism-glass; ” 



FOREWORD xv 

“ Not with the strength of your brawn and thew matching 
the fury-fire 

Of the beast that fights for the life it loves; nay! but 
with sneaking skill.” 

The following line affirms the need for conservation of 
wild animal life: 

“.So do our monarchs pass.” 

The American antelope, buffalo, and grizzly are pass¬ 
ing, as are several species of bird life. The carrier 
pigeon has become extinct. “ Hunt with the camera ” 
is a timely slogan. American citizenship should have 
regard for the preservation of its country’s natural 
beauty and wild life, if not for its own enjoyment, then 
for the pride of posterity. 

“ O beautiful for spacious skies. 

For amber waves of grain, 

For purple mountain majesties 
Above the fruited plain! 

America! America! 

God shed His grace on thee 
And crown thy good with brotherhood 
From sea to shining sea! ” 

sings Katharine Lee Bates, another poet whose verses 
express a noble regard for the native beauty of her 
country. She, too, is quick to denounce needless de¬ 
struction. The Horses and Only Mules , deploring the 
sufferings of mute victims of warfare, had considerable 
popularity during the World War. The former was 
written in reply to the news item: “Thus far 80,000 
horses have been shipped from the United States to the 
European belligerents.” The latter took exception to 
the “ rights ” in the authorized statement: “ The sub¬ 
marine was quite within its rights in sinking the cargo 
of the Armenian,—1,422 mules valued at $191,400.” 
To Sigurd and Laddie are two elegies that hold solace 



XVI 


FOREWORD 


for readers bereft of dog companions. They are com¬ 
forting sequels to Kipling’s The Power of the Dog. 

The author of The Man with the Hoe might be ex¬ 
pected to enlist in service that looks toward higher civili¬ 
zation. Not a few of his poems bear testimony to such 
activity. The Fate of the Fur Folk was written in 
ardent protest to the use of the steel trap, “ one of the 
most diabolical instruments of prolonged torture ever 
invented by the human mind.” Well may Mr. Mark¬ 
ham ask: 

" Ladies, are the furs you wear 
Worth the hell of this despair? ” 

This poem was read at the world convention of societies 
foE the prevention of cruelty to children and animals, 
held in New York City in 1923. It was later published 
by The Ladies 9 Home Journal, and is printed entire in 
Mr. Markham’s introduction to this book. 

The steel trap calls to mind another poet and an¬ 
other poem. The poet is Lew Sarett, whose volume, 
Slow Smoke, received in 1924 the annual award of The 
Poetry Society of America. The poem is Four Little 
Foxes, which appeared first in The Atlantic Monthly. 

** Speak gently. Spring, and make no sudden sound; 

For in my windy valley, yesterday I found 

New-born foxes squirming on the ground— 

Speak gently. 

Walk softly, March, forbear the bitter blow; 

Her feet within a trap, her blood upon the snow. 

The four little foxes saw their mother go— 

Walk softly. 

Go lightly, Spring, oh, give them no alarm; 

When I covered them with boughs to shelter them 
from harm, 

The thin blue foxes suckled at my arm— 

Go lightly. 


FOREWORD 


XVII 


Step softly, March, with your rampant hurricane; 
Nuzzling one another, and whimpering with pain, 

The new little foxes are shivering in the rain— 

Step softly.” 

From his forest retreat in northern Wisconsin, Mr. 
Sarett writes: “ And, peculiarly, many of the poems I 
plan to do lie in the field of your interest—poems on 
and for animals,—dogs, horses, deer,—creatures hunted 
and hurt.” In his rare volume, lyric compassion sings 
on page after page in such poems as,— Breakers of 
Broncos, When the Round Buds Brim, Blacktail Deer, 
Ghost, Readers of Loam, Dynamite, Colloquy with a 
Coyote, and To a Wild Goose Over Decoys. 

Mahlon Leonard Fisher, editor of the brochure en¬ 
titled The Sormet, and author of Sonnets: A First 
Series, is another American poet endowed with humani¬ 
tarian perception. Verification of this statement is 
provided by his companion sonnets, Oxen and The Old 
Plough-Horse, and by such lyrics as In Cool, Green 
Haunts ): 


“ A sweet, deep sense of mystery filled the wood. 

A star, like that which woke o'er Bethlehem, 

Shone on the still pool’s brow for diadem— 

The first to fall of summer’s multitude! 

In cool, green haunts, where, haply, Robin Hood 
Ranged royally, of old, with all his train, 

A hushed expectance, such as augurs rain, 

Enthralled me and possessed me where I stood. 

Then came the wind, with low word as he went; 

The quick wren, swift repeating what he said; 

A chattering chipmunk lured me on and led 
Where scented brakes ’neath some wee burden bent: — 
One look—’t was this those wild things yearned to 
say: 

* A little brown-eyed fawn was born to-day! ’ ” 


FOREWORD 


• * • 

XV111 

Several poets have written poems of humanitarian im¬ 
port, but probably not with humanitarian intent. One is 
Vachel Lindsay, who, in The Broncho That Would Not 
Be Broken , has given the world not only an immortal 
poem but a heart-breaking picture of broncho training. 
There is something to ponder in the bitter contrast of 
broncho and breaker: 

“ You were born with the pride of the lords great and 
olden 

Who danced, through the ages, in corridors golden. 

In all the wide farm place the person most human.” 


** But arch were your thoughts, all malice displacing, 

Though the horse-killers came, with snake-whips 
advancing. 

You bantered and cantered away your last chance. 

And they scourged you; with Hell in their speech 
and their faces, 

O broncho that would not be broken of dancing.” 

Richard Burton, Robert Carr, James Beebe Carring¬ 
ton, Arthur Chapman, Francis Holman Day, Glenn 
Ward Dresbach, Louise Driscoll, Hamlin Garland, 
Strickland Gillilan, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, William 
Griffith, Edgar Guest, Arthur Guiterman, John Russell 
Hayes, DuBose Heyward, Charles Keeler, Jeannette 
Marks, Gertrude Huntington McGiffert, Angela Mor¬ 
gan, Christopher Morley, Cale Young Rice, Clinton 
Scollard, George Sterling, Charles Hanson Towne, and 
Florence Wilkinson are in the increasing number of 
American poets who are helping to create a new era for 
what is popularly known as the lower creation. 

Frances E. Clarke 



INTRODUCTION 


BY EDWIN MARKHAM 

Author of “ The Man With the Hoe ” 
and other poems 

Glimpses of animal life are woven into the race 
memory. Looking back over the vista of history, we 
find that the earliest traditions and records of the race 
reveal men at work with the animals about them as 
friends and servants. 

An ancient tablet in Egypt, for instance, shows a 
man and an ox in the threshing field, the workman 
cheering on his patient work-mate with the words: 

“ Step along, step along faster . . . 

The husks for yourself: 

The corn for the master.” 

Indeed, Egypt went to the length of deifying certain 
animals for their strength or sagacity, and punished all 
who violated this sacredness. 

Animals were lifted into a high place in all the ancient 
sacrifices intended to appease the anger of the gods. 
The Greeks offered to their hungry deities the savor of 
fat bulls,—offered the animals most prized and precious. 
In our own Scriptures, we find intimations of an old and 
tender bond between man and the animals. To appease 
and to please Jehovah, the ancient Hebrews brought to 
the sacrificial altar their most innocent and lovely pos¬ 
sessions, the dove and the lamb. 

So in the long march of the ancient religions, as well 

xix 


XX 


INTRODUCTION 


as in the misty whirl of myth and fairy tale, animals 
have been man’s comfort, man’s help, man’s hostages to 
the gods. 

The dog was one of man’s earliest companions. When 
Azarias and Tobias went forth, as told in the Apocry¬ 
pha, “ The young man’s dog went with them.” When 
in the Odyssey, Ulysses returned after his long absence 
in the Trojan war, his old dog welcomed him back. 

And the horse has been loved and honored even from 
the ages of heroic myth. You remember the horses of 
Apollo. The shining Hours led them forth from the 
lofty stalls, led them forth harnessed and fed full of 
ambrosia; whereat the beamy God, seizing the reins, 
sprang to his place in the car and leaned forward as 
he urged across the perilous heavens the chariot of the 
sun. 

At a later epoch in Egypt, we are told that Joseph 
gave corn in return for horses; and all through the Bible 
sounds the pleasant or terrible tramp and snort of 
these faithful multipliers of the strength and the speed 
of man. 

The ancient teachers seem never to have forgotten 
utterly to impress upon men the duty of considering 
the rights of animals. We all remember that in the 
Ten Commandments it was ordained that cattle as well 
as menservants and maidservants should have their 
rest on the Sabbath day. We are told that in the 
destruction of Nineveh “ much cattle ” were spared; 
and we are told—with a touch of sweet humanity—that 
Jacob led the cattle softly on “ as they were able to 
endure.” We are also assured that the ox and the ass 
were not to plow together because of the unequal strain. 


INTRODUCTION 


xxi 


Turn now to India, and you will find that love and 
care for animals are urged upon men by the great 
Buddha Sakyamuni, that immortal prophet of the 
Orient. You remember how beautifully his early minis¬ 
try began in that earnest protest, defending the swan 
injured by the flying arrow of the hunter. He finds 
the dying bird beside the way, and lifts it gently. You 
have read the story in The Light of Asia: 

“ Then our Lord 

Laid the swan’s neck beside his own smooth cheek 
And gravely spake: ‘Say no! the bird is mine. 

The first of myriad things which shall be mine 
By right of mercy and love’s lordliness. 

For now I know by what within me stirs, 

That I shall teach compassion unto men 
And be a speechless interpreter, 

Abating this accursed flood of woe. 

Not man’s alone.’ ” 

It has been said that Buddha, more than Christ, has 
expressed a sympathy for our kindred of fur and 
feather. This is not the case, for Christ’s love and 
tenderness for these lesser kindred are expressed in His 
habitual word and attitude toward them. 

So true is this that we feel that it was most appro¬ 
priate that the birth of Jesus should have been in a 
manger in close neighborhood with the watching ox and 
ass. It appears at a later time that He approved of 
the recovery of the ox and ass when fallen into the pit, 
even upon the Sabbath da}^ He noted the sparrow on 
the wing, and He bears tender witness to the fact that 
a sparrow never falls without the Father’s notice. In 
His effective speech, He expresses His desire to inbrother 
the people of His disturbed chaotic Jerusalem. So He 
cries out: “ How often would I have gathered thy chil- 


XXII 


INTRODUCTION 


dren together even as a hen gathereth her chickens un¬ 
der her wings! ” He could not have conceived of this 
touching and powerful image unless He had often 
watched with tender interest the mother-hen gathering 
her chicks under her sheltering wings at the fall of the 
night. 

Yes, His eye of compassion was ever alert to behold 
our humbler kindred. He saw the dove on the house¬ 
top. He saw the shepherds passing with their flocks 
in search of new pastures; and He noted with com¬ 
passion a sheep which wandered lost and unshepherded 
on the perilous hillsides. He not only beheld the strayed 
sheep, but He also commemorates the shepherd who 
leaves his safely folded flock to go out to seek and re¬ 
cover the wandered one. 

Besides all this, we find His ever-devoted follower, St. 
Francis of Assisi, turning with tenderness toward all 
animals, seeing in them our lesser brethren of the com¬ 
mon way. 

If the followers of Jesus have not always been kind to 
animals, w r e cannot charge their inhumanit}^ to the com¬ 
passionate One, the heart-warm nature-lover of Galilee. 

Whatever else Jesus was, He was a poet; and the 
poets have always been on the side of the angels, on the 
side of humanity. Yet only in recent times have they 
spoken so frequently and so forcibly in defense of the 
oppressed. 

However, as long ago as that old time when Greece 
was in her glory, we hear JEschylus in Prometheus Bound 
telling us that one of the three law r s “ of most revered 
righteousness ” demands that we hurt no living thing. 
In little flashes of phrase, Shakespeare also lets out his 


INTRODUCTION 


xxm 

sympathy with animal life. He knows the nesting-place 
of the martlet or swallow on the castle eaves, and he 
pictures it for the heart as well as for the head: 

“ This guest of summer. 

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve. 

By his loved masonry, that the heaven’s breath 
Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze. 

Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird 
Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle: 
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, 
The air is delicate.” 

And Shakespeare puts these compassionate words 
into the lips of Lear: 

“ Mine enemy’s dog. 

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 

Against my fire.” 

Two hundred years later, we hear cries of protest out 
of the wild heart of William Blake: 

“ A robin redbreast in a cage 
Puts all Heaven in a rage. 

A dog starved at his master’s gate 
Predicts the ruin of the State. 

A skylark wounded on the wing 
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.” 

Long ago, all enlightened men realized that God is 
not pleased with blood sacrifice in His honor. But they 
have not yet fully learned that no harmless creature 
should be hurt or slain for any caprice of pleasure. 
Nor have certain women altogether learned that no 
little creature should be tortured or slaughtered to 
secure the feathers or the furs that contribute to the 
vanity of adornment. 

In defense of these defenseless creatures, many of our 


XXIV 


INTRODUCTION 


modern poets have spoken in impassioned terms. I 
myself in The Fate of the Fur Folk and in other 
verses have tried to cry protest against the immense 
cruelty of the steel-trap and other engines of animal 
suffering. 


THE FATE OF THE FUR FOLK 

Early, while the east is pale, 

The trapper is out on the frozen trail; 
Cruel traps are on his back, 

Snares to line the woodland track; 
Day by day he links the chain 
Of these grim machines of pain, 

In whose merciless iron jaws 
Little fur folk die, because 
Men must high on Fortune ride, 
Women have an hour of pride. 

Squirrel, ermine, sable, mole, 

Out for food from cliff and hole; 
Muskrat, silver fox and mink, 

At the stream for evening drink— 
All are tempted to this hell 
That some bank account may swell. 

Ladies, do you think of this— 

Up where tempests howl and hiss, 
Where the folk of hill and cave 
Scream with no one there to save? 

Do you see them crunched and lone, 
Steel teeth biting into bone? 


INTRODUCTION 


XXV 


Ladies, did you ever see 
An otter gnawing to get free? 

Gnawing what? His fettered leg, 

For he has no friend to beg. 

Do you see that tortured shape 
Gnaw his leg off to escape? 

Have you seen these creatures die 
While the bleeding hours go by— 

These poor mothers in the wood 
Robbed of joy and motherhood? 

Do you, when at night you kneel, 

See them in their traps of steel— 

Not alone by pain accurst, 

But by hunger and by thirst? 

Do you hear their dying cries 
When the crows pick out their eyes? 

Yes, sometimes in dreams you hear 
Yells of agony and fear 
From the snare of iron teeth, 

With that panting thing beneath. 

For all night, where storms are whirled, 
Groans are curdling the white world— 

Groans of mothers dying so, 

Groans of little ones that go 
Homeless, hungry in the snow. 

Ladies, are the furs you wear 
Worth the hell of this despair? 

NOTE—The above poem will lead off the group of humane 
verses in Edwin Markham’s Collected Poems to be printed 
in the Autumn of 1927. Free copies of this poem for dis¬ 
tribution can be secured by writing—with self-addressed 
envelope—to Edwin Markham, West New Brighton, N. Y. 


XXVI 


INTRODUCTION 


Frances E. Clarke has been touched by the pathos 
of all this Iliad of suffering. Helped by many com¬ 
rades in this great compassion for the defenseless, she 
is working for the humane cause. And she has now 
compiled and edited this anthology of poems, selected 
from distinguished poets, living and dead. 

This is the only anthology of its kind in America. 
The time is opportune for its appearance, for a great 
wave of humane sentiment is sweeping over the con¬ 
tinent. We see this in the recent formation of a national 
society to abolish the use of the steel trap; we see it 
in the soaring membership of the Jack London Society, 
organized to protest against the training and exhibi¬ 
tion of performing animals. 

It is needless to say that all persons in sympathy 
with the animal kingdom will wish to do all in their 
power to make this volume a triumphant force in ma¬ 
terializing and perpetuating the gospel of loving kind¬ 


ness. 


CONTENTS 


PRELUDE 


Tewkesbury Road. 

John Masefield . 

3 

A Song of Solomon. 

Josephine Preston Peabody . 

4 

The Brother of a Weed . . . . 

Arthur Symons .... 

4 

A Tulip Garden. 

Amy Lowell . 

7 

The Marsh. 

Glenn Ward Dresbach. . . . 

7 

Pitiful. 

John Galsworthy . 

8 

On the Companionship with 
Nature. 

ArchibaldLampman .... 

IO 

The Seeing Eye. 

John Kendrick Bangs k . . 

n 

Brother Beasts. 

Gale Young Rice . 

ii 

The Bells of Heaven. 

Ralph Hodgson . 

13 

An Answer. 


13 

Questions. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes . v. . 

14 

Once on a Time. 

Margaret Benson . 

14 

An Animal Song. 

Kathleen Conyngham Greene . 

15 

April in the City. 

Elisabeth Scollard . 

16 

A Brook in the City. 

Robert Frost . 

17 

The Spirit of Nature. 

Richard Real}. ../... 

18 

His Epitaph. 

Clarence E. Flynn . 

18 

On the Dedication of a Drink¬ 
ing Fountain. 

Charles Keeler . 

19 

Compassion. 

Thomas Hardy 

22 

THE ADORATION OF THE TREES 


Good Company. 

Karle Wilson Baker .... 

27 

Sermons in Trees. 

Florence Wilkinson . 

27 

Trees. 

Joyce Kilmer . . 

28 

A Wasted Morning. 

Abbie Farwell Brown .... 

29 

A B C’s in Green. 

Leonora Speyer . 

30 

Tree Feelings. 

Charlotte Perkins Gilman > . 

31 

The Healing of the Wood . . . 

Clinton Scollard . 

32 

My Legacy. 

Ethelwyn Wetherald .... 

33 

The Tree’s Way. 

George Cronyn . 

33 

Trees. 

Angela Morgan . 

34 

Green Leaves. 

Basho . 

35 

Tapestry Trees. 

William Morris . 

35 

My Cathedral. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

37 

To the Fallen Gum-Tree on Mt. 
Baw-Baw. 

Douglas W. Sladen . 

37 

The Lesson of a Tree. 

Walt Whitman . 

• • 

39 


XXV11 

























































CONTENTS 


xxviii 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


Stupidity Street. 

Ralph Hodgson .... 


43 

The Birds. 

Jack Collins Squire . . 


43 

Pensioners. 



46 

From “May-Day ”. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 


47 

A Health to the Birds. 

Seumas MacManus . . 


48 

“Sing On, Blithe Bird”. . . . 

William Motherwell . . 


50 

Chanticleer. 

Katharine Tynan . . . 


5i 

A Little Bird. 

Ellen M. Huntington Gates . 

52 

The Bird Man. 

Lucy Branch Allen. . . 


53 

The Mother Bird. 

Walter de la Mare . . . 


54 

A Bird in the Hand. 

Norman Gale . 


55 

A Meadow Tragedy. 

Dora Sigerson Shorter . 


56 

The Rape of the Nest. 

Francis Adams . 


56 

My Thrush. 

Mortimer Collins . . . 


57 

Thrushes. 

Evelyn Underhill . . . 


58 

Thrushes. 

Karle Wilson Baker . . 


58 

The First Bluebirds. 

Katharine Lee Bates . . 


59 

Birds. 

Katharine Morse . . . 


60 

The Oriole. 

Louise Helen Coburn. . 


60 

To Some Philadelphia Sparrows 

Jeannette Marks. . . . 


61 

The Song Sparrow. 

Henry Van Dyke. . . . 


62 

Chickadee. 

Hilda Conkling .... 


63 

The Titmouse. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 


64 

Titmouse. 

Walter de la Mare . . . 


67 

Bob White. 

Edgar A . Guest .... 


68 

Partridges. 

Alonzo Teall Worden. . 


69 

The Library Dove. 

John Russell Hayes . . 


70 

The Belfry Pigeon. 

N. P. Willis . 


7i 

The Wild Duck’s Nest . . . . 

William Wordsworth. . 


72 

Wagtail and Baby. 

Thomas Hardy .... 


73 

The Owls. 

Helen Granville-Barker . 


74 

The Sandpiper. 

Celia Thaxter . 


74 

To a Waterfowl. 

William Cullen Bryant . 


76 

On Scaring Some Waterfowl in 
Loch-Turit. 

Robert Burns . 


77 

Wild Geese. 

Frederick Peterson . . . 


78 

The Wounded Gull. 

Edmund Gosse . 


79 

Sea-Gulls of Manhattan .... 

Henry van Dyke .... 


81 

The Sea-Mew. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 

82 

The Eagle. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson . 


84 

The Loon . 

Amelia Josephine Burr . 


84 

The Black Vulture. 

George Sterling .... 


85 
































































CONTENTS 

xxix 

THE 

HORSE 


The Old Plough-Horse. 

Mahlon Leonard Fisher . . 

. 89 

The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed 

Caroline Norton . 

. .89 

The Blood Horse. 

Bryan Waller Procter. . . 

92 

Hassan to His Mare. 

Bayard Taylor . 

• 94 

On the Passing of the Last Fire 
Horse from Manhattan Island 

Kenneth Slade Ailing . . 

95 

Dialogue of the Horses .... 

Will Carleton . 

• 95 

Dat 01’ Mare O’ Mine .... 

Paul Laurence Dunbar . . 

97 

Polo Ponies. 

Eleanor Baldwin . 

99 

“ MY DOG AND I ” 


The Road to Vagabondia . . . 

Dana Burnet . 

. 103 

My Dog. 

William Griffith . 


“ Is Thy Servant a Dog? ”. . . 

John B. Tabb . 

. 105 

Bishop Doane’s Tribute to His 
Dog Cluny. 

Bishop Doane . 

. 105 

My Dog. 

John Kendrick Bangs . . 

. 106 

For a Little Brown Dog .... 

Anonymous . 

107 

My Dog and I. 

Norah M. Holland . . . 

108 

Da Pup Een Da Snow. 

T. A. Daly . 

109 

We Meet at Morn. 

Hardwicke Drummond 



Rawnsley . 

. Ill 

Dreams . 

S. Virginia Sherwood. . . 

112 

Lauth . 

Robert Burns . 

113 

The Irish Wolf-Hound. 

Denis Florence McCarthy . 

. 113 

At the Dog Show. 

Christopher Morley. . . . 

. 114 

In a Shop Window. 

Margaret E. Sangster. . . 

. 115 

The Pup . 

Edgar A . Guest . 

116 

The Yellow Dog . 

Edgar A . Guest . 

. 117 

A Boy and His Dog . 

Edgar A . Guest . 

. 118 

A Boy and a Pup . 

Arthur Guiterman .... 

. 119 

Little Lost Pup . 

A rthur Guiterman .... 

120 

The Dog . 

George Sterling . 

121 

The Outcast . 

Henry Herbert Knibbs . . 

. 122 

THE CAT 


In Honour of Taffy Topaz . . . 

Christopher Morley. . . . 

127 

The Gardener’s Cat. 

Patrick R. Chalmers . . . 

127 

To My Cat . 

Rosamund Marriott Watson 

129 

To My Cat . 

John G. Ncihardt .... 

129 

To a Cat . 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

130 

Pussy’s Plea . 

Henry Coyle . 

L33 

“ Doomed ” . 

Anonymous . 

• 133 






















































XXX 


CONTENTS 


BURDEN-BEARERS 

The Donkey. G. K. Chesterton. 

A Friend in Need. Jack Burroughs . 

I Am the Mule. Will Chamberlain 

The Burthen of the Ass .... John B. Tabb . . 
Nicholas Nye. Walter de la Mare 


SMALL CREATURES 

Snake. D. H. Lawrence. 

The Lizard. Edwin Markham 

To a Tree-Frog. Am'elie Rives . . 

The Toad. Arthur C. Benson 

The Woodmouse. Mary Howitt . . 

To a Field Mouse. Robert Burns . . 

To a Wood-Rat. James Leo Duff . 

Remorse on Killing a Squirrel 

in a Garden. William Ray . . 

A Neighbour. Norman Gale . . 


“ UPON A THOUSAND HILLS " 


A Cow at Sullington ..... 

The Old Brindle Cow. 

The Kerry Cow. 

Cattle Before the Storm. . . . 

Feedin’ the Stock. 

The Stock in the Tie-Up. . . . 
I’ve Got Them Calves to Veal . 
The Little Red Bullock . . . . 

The Cattle Train. 

Sheep. 

A Child’s Pet. 

The CaU. 


Charles Dalmon . 

Thomas 0’ Hagan . 

W. M. Letts . 

Glenn Ward Dresbach . . . 

Holman F. Day . 

Holman F. Day . 

Holman F. Day . 

Herbert Tremaine . 

Charlotte Perkins Gilman . . 
William H. Davies . . . . 
William H. Davies . . . . 
Eleanor Baldwin . 


137 

137 

138 

139 

140 


145 

148 

149 

150 

152 

153 
155 

155 

157 


161 

161 

162 

164 

165 
168 
171 

173 

174 

175 

176 

177 


OXEN 

Oxen . . .'. Mahlon Leonard Fisher. . . 181 

The Ox. Giosue Carducci . 181 

A Yoke of Steers. DuBose Heyward .182 

Crossing the Plains. Joaquin Miller .183 

“ THE LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS ” 

All Things Wait Upon Thee . . Christina Rossetti . . . . 187 

The Bee in Church. Alfred Noyes .187 

A Bee Sets Sail. Katharine Morse .188 

The Humble-Bee. Ralph Waldo Emerson ... 189 
























































CONTENTS 


xxxi 


Indifference. 

Louise Driscoll . . . 

191 

The Dragon Fly. 

Jessie B. Rittenhouse. . . . 

192 

A Caterpillar’s Apology for Eat¬ 
ing a Favorite Gladiolus. . . 

Charles Dalmon . 

193 

The Captive Butterfly. 

Helen Granville-Barker . . . 

193 

B£te Humaine. 

Francis Brett Young .... 

194 

A Cricket Singing in the 
Market-Place. 

Louella C. Poole . 

194 

The Grasshopper. 

W. R. Childe . 

196 

The Ants. 

John Clare . 

196 

The Garden Spider. 

Charles Mackay . 

197 

IN STREAM AND SEA 


“ Lukannon ”. 

Rudyard Kipling . 

203 

Minnows. 

John Keats . 

204 

“ Thou Little God Within the 
Brook ”. 

Philip Henry Savage .... 

205 

The Fish. 

Rupert Brooke . 

205 

WESTERN TRAILS 


The Broncho That Would Not 
Be Broken. 

Vachel Lindsay . 

211 

The Meeting. 

Arthur Chapman . 

212 

A Coyote Prowled. 

Annie Elizabeth Cheney . . . 

214 

Grizzly. 

Bret Harte . 

214 

The Last Antelope. 

Edwin Ford Piper . 

215 

To a Buffalo Skull. 

Robert V. Carr . 

216 

To a Rattlesnake. 

Robert V. Carr . 

217 

A Bison-King. 

Joaquin Miller . 

217 

FROM THE JUNGLE 


The Tiger. 

William Blake . 

221 

The Panther. 

Edwin Markham . 

222 

Toomai of the Elephants . . . 

Rudyard Kipling . 

222 

Beast and Man in India. . . . 

John Lockwood Kipling 

223 

The Monkey. 

Nancy Campbell . 

225 

IN WAR SERVICE 


A Mascot. 

Arthur Guiterman . 

229 

The Fusiliers’ Dog. 

Francis Doyle . 

230 

The Turkish Trench Dog . . . 

Geoffrey Dearmcr . 

232 

The Dogs of War. 

Nora Archibald Smith . . . 

233 

The War-Horse Buyers .... 

Arthur Chapman . 

234 

The Army Horse. 

McLandburgh Wilson . . . 

235 

The Horses. 

Katharine Lee Bates .... 

236 



















































CONTENTS 


XXXll 


“ Good-bye, Old Friend! ” . . . 

Anonymous . 

237 

The Horse. 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox .... 

238 

Gun-Teams. 

Gilbert Frankau, R. S. A. . . 

240 

“Bay Billy”. 


242 

Sheridan’s Ride. 

Thomas Buchanan Read . . 

246 

Miles Keogh’s Horse. 

John Hay . 

248 

Only Mules. 

Katharine Lee Bates .... 

250 

The Lark. 

Robert W. Service - . . . . 

251 

The Nightingales of Flanders. . 

Grace Hazard Conkling. . . 

252 

IN LEGEND 


The Homage of Beasts . . . . 

Augusta Lamed . 

255 

“ How They Brought the Good 
News from Ghent to Aix ”. . 

Robert Browning . 

256 

The Bell of Atri. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

259 

Sir Bat-Ears. 

Helen Parry Eden . 

263 

Fidelity. 

William Wordsworth. . . . 

265 

“ Hold ”. 

Patrick R. Chalmers .... 

267 

Beth G£lert. 

Robert William Spencer . . . 

269 

The Birds of Killingworth . . . 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

273 

Pearl Seventy-Eight. 

Edwin Arnold . 

281 

One of His Animal Stories . . . 

James Whitcomb Riley . . . 

282 

The Emperor’s Bird’s-Nest. . . 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

286 

The Milan Bird-Cages. 

Margaret J. Preston .... 

288 

Walter von der Vogelweid . . . 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

291 

FOR VANITY 


Four Little Foxes. 

Lew Sarett . 

295 

The Kind Lady’s Furs. 

Strickland Gillilan . 

295 

To a Lady in Her Furs . . . . 

J. B. Carrington . 

297 

My Lady’s Fur. 

F. Ursula Payne . 

297 

For Vanity. 

Hannah J. Dawtrey .... 

298 

Dead Birds and Easter .... 

May Riley Smith . 

299 

Our Brothers of the Fields and 
Trees. 

Charles Keeler . 

301 

“ BRAVES OF THE HUNT ” 


In Cool, Green Haunts .... 

Mahlon Leonard Fisher . . . 

307 

The Catch. 

John Kendrick Bangs . . . 

307 

The Quails. 

Francis Brett Young .... 

308 

The Bloodless Sportsman . . . 

Sam Walter Foss . 

3ii 

A Poem for Prue. 

Norman Gale . 

312 

How to Catch a Bird. 

LelandB. Jacobs . 

314 

Wounded. 

Florence Wilkinson . 

315 

The Puzzled Game-Birds . . . 

Thomas Hardy . 

316 













































CONTENTS 


To a Wild Goose Over Decoys . 
From “ Windsor Forest ” . . . 

Wounds. 

No Sanctuary. 

The Widowed Eagle. 

The Wounded Hare. 

The Beaver. 

The Snare. 

The Deer-Trapper. 

Braves of the Hunt. 

The Hunt. 


xxxiii 


Lew Sarett .316 

Alexander Pope .317 

Arthur C. Benson .317 

Edwin Markham .318 

Edith M. Thomas .319 

Robert Burns .320 

Mary Howitt .321 

James Stephens .322 

Francis Sterne Palmer . . . 323 

Henry Herbert Knibbs . . . 324 


Gertrude Huntington McGiffert 326 


IN CAPTIVITY 


At the Zoo. 

In the Zoo. 

To a Caged Lion. 

The Dromedary. 

The Captive Polar Bear . . . 

The Heart of a Bird. 

The Captured Eagle . . . . 

To a Captive Crane. 

From “ The Manciple’s Tale” 

The Cage. 

Caged. 

To a Linnet in a Cage. . . . 
The Sky-Lark Caged . . . . 
Mother Carey’s Chicken. . . 
The Caged Squirrel. 


✓ 


Israel Zangwill 
George T. Marsh. . . 
Oliver Wendell Holmes 
A. Y. Campbell . . . 
Stephen Gwynn . . . 
Dorothea MacKellar . . 

Janet Gargan . 

Hamlin Garland . . . 
Geoffrey Chaucer. . . . 
James Stephens . . . . 
Grace Denio Litchfield 
Francis Ledwidge . . . 

Alfred Noyes . 

Theodore Watts-Dunton 


331 

331 

332 

333 

334 

335 

336 

337 

337 

338 
338 

340 

34 1 
343 


Janet Gargan .347 


PERFORMING ANIMALS 


Baboon . 


• • 351 

Little Dog of Amusement Zoo . 

Alice Jean Cleator . . . . 

■ • 353 

Tigers. 

Louise Morgan Sill. . . . 

• 353 

FOR THE 

CHILDREN 


Little Friends in Fairyland. . . 

Edith M. Thomas . . . 

• • 357 

“ I had a little pony ”. 

Nursery Rhyme .... 

• • 358 

“ A man went a-hunting at Rei- 
gate ”. 

Nursery Rhyme .... 

• • 359 

“ Shoe the horse, and shoe the 
mare ”. 

Nursery Rhyme . 

• 359 

“ Come hither, sweet Robin ” . 

Nursery Rhyme .... 

• 359 

“ There came to my window ” . 

Nursery Rhyme . 

• 360 

“ Mary had a little lamb ”... 

Nursery Rhyme . . . . 

■ • 360 

“ I had a little Doggy ”. . . . 

Nursery Rhyme .... 

• • 361 





















































XXXIV 


CONTENTS 


A Question. 

The Wistful Waif. 

The Pets’ Christmas Carol . . 
Three Things to Remember . . 

Kindness to Animals. 

Hiawatha’s Chickens. 

Hiawatha’s Brothers. 

Little Gustava. 

Nature’s Friend. 

Dinah. 

I Like Little Pussy. 

The Gray Kitten. 

’F I Was Er Horse !. 

The Cow. 

The Lamb. 

The Best Friend. 

Tit for Tat. 

The Blue-Tit. 

If Ever I See. 

The Brown Thrush. 

The Snow-Bird. 

Nest Eggs. 

Little Bird. 

Meadow Talk. 

The Mischievous Morning-Glory 
The Seed. 


Fairmont Snyder . 

Fairmont Snyder . 

Winifred SackviLle Stoner, Jr. 

William Blake . 

Anonymous . 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Celia Thaxter . 

William H. Davies . 

Norman Gale . 

Jane Taylor .. 

Jane Campbell . 

Burges Johnson . 

Robert Louis Stevenson .... 
William Blake ....... 

Norman Gale . 

Walter de la Mare . 

Norman Gale . 

Lydia Maria Child . 

Lucy Larcom . 

Frank Dempster Sherman-. . 
Robert Louis Stevenson . . . 

Madison Cawein . 

Nora Archibald Smith . . . 

Mary Fenollosa . 

Mary Fenollosa ...... 


361 

362 

362 

363 

363 

364 

364 

365 

366 

368 

369 

370 

370 

371 

371 

372 

374 

375 

376 

377 

378 
378 

380 

381 

383 

384 


IN MEMORIAM 

Laddie. Katharine Lee Bates . 

To Sigurd. Katharine Lee Bates . 

His Name was Bob. M. V. Caruthers. . . 

A Faithful Dog. Richard Burton . . . 

In Memory of a Dumb Friend . Amelia Josephine Burr 
To the Dogs of the Great St. 

Bernard. Abbie Farwell Brown. 

A Dog’s Grave. W. M. Letts . /. . . 

A Horse’s Epitaph. Lord Sherbrooke . . . 

Inscription on the Monument of 
a Newfoundland Dog . . . . Lord Byron . ... . . 


389 

390 
393 

393 

394 

395 

396 

396 

397 


Acknowledgments . 
Index of Authors 
Index of Titles . . 
Index of First Lines 


399 

406 

412 

419 




























































1 







































































Yet, taught by time, my heart has learned to glow 
For other’s good, and melt at other’s woe. 

Odyssey, BOOK XVIII . 

Translation by Alexander Pope. 


2 


PRELUDE 


TEWKESBURY ROAD 
By John Masefield 

It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows 
not where, 

Going through meadow and village, one knows not 
whither nor why; 

Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen 
cool rush of the air, 

Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift 
of the sky. 

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green 
fern at the brink 

Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the fox¬ 
gloves purple and white; 

Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop 
to drink 

When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on 
of the night. 

O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell 
of the earth, 

Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power 
of words; 

And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple 
with mirth 

At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild 
cry of the birds. 


3 


4 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A SONG OF SOLOMON 
By Josephine Brest on Peabody 

King Solomon was the wisest man 
Of all that have been kings. 

He built an House unto the Lord; 
And he sang of creeping things, 

Of creeping things, of things that fly, 
Or swim within the seas; 

Of the little weed along the wall, 
And of the cedar-trees. 

And happier he, without mistake, 
Than all men since alive. 

God’s House he built; and he did make 
A thousand songs and five. 


THE BROTHER OF A WEED 

By Arthur Symons 

I 

I have shut up my soul with vehemence 
Against the world, and opened every sense 
That I may take, but not for love or price, 

The world’s best gold and frankincense and spice. 
I have delighted in all visible things 
And built the world of my imaginings 
Out of the splendour of the day and night, 

And I have never wondered that my sight 


PRELUDE 


5 


Should serve me for my pleasure, or that aught 
Beyond the lonely mirror of my thought 
Lived, and desired me. I have walked as one 
Who dreams himself the master of the sun, 

And that the seasons are as seraphim 

And in the months and stars bow down to him. 

II 

And I have been of all men loneliest, 

And my chill soul has withered in my breast 
With pride and no content and loneliness. 

And I have said: To make our sorrow less 
Is there not pity in the heart of flowers, 

Or joy in wings of birds that might be ours? 

Is there a beast that lives, and will not move 
Toward our poor love with a more lovely love? 
And might not our proud hopeless sorrow pass 
If we became as humble as the grass? 

I will get down from my sick throne where I 
Dreamed that the seasons of the earth and sky, 
The leash of months and stars, were mine to lead, 
And pray to be the brother of a weed. 

III 

I am beginning to find out that there 
Are beings to be pitied everywhere. 

Thus when I hear, at night an orphaned sheep 
Crying as a child cries, how can I sleep? 

Yet the night-birds are happy, or I seem 
To hear them in the hollow of a dream, 
Whispering to each other in the trees, 

And through the window comes a leaping breeze 


6 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


That has the sea-salt in it. When I hear 
Crying of oxen, that, in deadly fear, 

Rough men, with cruel dogs about them, drive 

Into the torture-house of death alive, 

0 

How can I sit under a tree and read 
A happy idle book, and take no heed? 

IV 

Why is not sorrow kinder to all these 
That have short lives and yet so little ease? 

Life is but anxious fear to lambs and hens, 

And even the birds are enemies of men’s 
Because they rob a cherry-tree; the mole 
Cannot be left in quiet in his hole 
Though he is softer than a velvet gown; 

The caterpillar is soon trodden down 
Under a boot’s ignorant heel, though he 
Is woven finer than old tapestry. 

The worm is close and busy and discreet, 

The foe of no man living: no man’s feet 
Spare him, if he but crawl into the sun. 

Who can be happy, while these things are done? 

V 

Why are the roses filled with such a heat, 

And are so gaudy and riotously sweet, 

When any wind may snap them from the stem 
Or any little green worm canker them? 

Why is the dawn-delivered butterfly 
So arrogant, knowing he has to die 
Before another dawn has waked his brother? 
Why do the dragon-flies outshoot each other 


PRELUDE 


7 


With such an ardour, knowing that the noon 
Will put away his shining arrows soon? 

Why is the seed that, having got to corn, 

Must come to bread, so eager to be born? 

Why is it that the joy of living gives 
Forgetfulness to everything that lives? 

A TULIP GARDEN 

By Amy Lowell 

Guarded within the old red wall’s embrace, 
Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, 

The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry 
Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace 
Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! 

Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, 

With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye 
Of purple batteries, every gun in place. 

Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread, 
With torches burning, stepping out in time 

To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, 
We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime 
Parades that army. With our utmost powers 
We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers. 

THE MARSH 

By Glenn Ward Dresbach 

Farmlands about the marsh are dreary 
With sameness and unending toil 
But in the marsh are groups of willows 
And calamus grows in the treacherous soil. 


8 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A meadow brook through the cool lush grasses 
Makes pools where water lilies bloom, 

And bob-o-links shake dewy music 
On marsh airs dreamy with perfume. 

One farmer said, “ The place is worthless— 
The bogs and rains must have their way.” 

Another said, “ Our children plague us 
For sneaking to the marsh to play.” 

Some dreaming farm lad yet may wander 
Into the marsh and find the words 

To make them love it and hear its whispers 
Above the lowing of the herds. 

He may—I doubt it since so many 

Who left their chores and ran with me 

Down to the marsh to play are dreary 
For beauty they no longer see. 

Unheard the bob-o-links are singing, 

Unloved the willows sway in light— 

All that the grown folks near the marsh know 
Is distant sound of frogs at night. 


PITIFUL 

By John Galsworthy 

When God made man to live his hour 
And hitch his wagon to a star, 

He made a being without power 
To see His creatures as they are. 


PRELUDE 


9 


He made a masterpiece of will, 
Superb above its mortal lot, 
Invincible by any ill— 
Imagination He forgot! 


This man of God’s, with every wish 
To earn the joys of Kingdom Come, 
Will prison up the golden fish 
In bowl no bigger than a drum. 

And though he withers from remorse 
When he refuses Duty’s call 
He’ll cut the tail of any horse, 

And carve each helpless animal. 

No spur to humour doth he want, 

In wit the Earth he overlords, 

Yet drives the hapless elephant 

To clown and tumble on “ the boards.” 
This man, of every learning chief, 

So w r ise that he can read the skies, 

Can fail to read the wordless grief 

That haunts a prisoned monkey’s eyes. 


He’ll prate of “ mercy to the weak ” 

And strive to lengthen human breath, 
But starve the little gaping beak 
And hunt the timid hare to death. 
Though with a spirit wild as w r ind, 

The world at liberty he’d see, 

He cannot any reason find 
To set the tameless tiger free. 


10 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Such healing victories he wins, 

And drugs away the mother’s pangs, 

But sets his God-forsaken gins 

To mangle rabbits with their fangs. 

Devout, he travels all the roads 

To track and vanquish all the pains, 

And yet—the wagon overloads, 

The watch-dog to his barrel chains. 

He’d soar the heavens in his flight 
To measure Nature’s majesty, 

Yet take his children to delight 
In captive eagles’ tragedy. 

This man, in knowledge absolute, 

Who right, and love, and honour woos, 

Yet keeps the pitiful poor brute 
To mope and languish in his Zoos. 

You creatures wild, of field and air, 
Keep far from men, where’er they go! 

God set no speculation there— 

Alack!—We know not what we do! 

ON THE COMPANIONSHIP WITH NATURE 

By Archibald Lampman 

Let us be much with Nature; not as they 
That labour without seeing, that employ 
Her unloved forces, blindty without joy; 

Nor those whose hands and crude delights obey 
The old brute passion to hunt down and slay; 
But rather as children of one common birth, 
Discerning in each natural fruit of earth 


PRELUDE 


11 


Kinship and bond with this diviner clay. 

Let us be with her wholly at all hours, 

With the fond lover’s zest, who is content 
If his ear hears, and if his eye but sees; 

So shall we grow like her in mould and bent, 

Our bodies stately as her blessed trees, 

Our thoughts as sweet and sumptuous as her 
flowers. 

THE SEEING EYE 

By John Kendrick Bangs 

Small things and humble greatest lessons hold, 
Which to the seeing eye they soon unfold— 

As on some thorny road my way I pass 
I get new courage from a blade of grass, 

Which ’mid the turmoil and the weeds that kill 
Holds fearlessly its course appointed still. 

BROTHER BEASTS 

By Cole Young Bice 

Winter is here 

And there are no leaves 

On the naked trees, 

Save stars twinkling 
As the wind blows. 

Soft to the branches 
The little screech-owl 
Silently comes, 

Silently goes, 

With weird tremolos. 


12 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


I would go out 
And gather the stars 
The wind shakes down, 
Were they not scattered 
So far in the West. 

I would go ask 
The little screech-owl 
If he finds ease 
There in his nest 
After his quest. 

I would go learn 
If the small gray mouse 
Who sets up house 
In the frozen meadow 
Dreams of the stars. 

Or what he thinks 
There in the dark, 

When flake on flake 
Of white snow bars 
Him in with its spars. 

I would go out 
And learn these things 
That I may know 
What dream or desire 
Troubles my brothers 
In nest or hole. 

For even as I 
The owl and the mouse, 
Or blinded mole 
With unborn soul, 

May have some goal. 


PRELUDE 


13 


THE BELLS OF HEAVEN 

By Ralph Hodgson 

’Twould ring the bells of Heaven 
The wildest peal for years, 

If Parson lost his senses 
And people came to theirs, 

And he and they together 
Knelt down with angry prayers 
For tamed and shabby tigers 
And dancing dogs and bears, 

And wretched, blind pit ponies, 

And little hunted hares. 

AN ANSWER 
By S. St. G. Lawrence 

You call them “ beasts that perish,” and you say 
That we, God’s higher children, have the right 

To trample our dumb brothers in the clay, 

And use against them all our greater might; 

To force the horses on their weary way, 

Urged by the stinging whip and tight-drawn rein; 

To take the slow, dull cattle for our prey, 

And slay the furry creatures for our gain. 

They may not reach the heaven we hope to win, 

And so ten thousand of their lives are naught 

Against one human life, though dark with sin— 
Their soulless sufferings are not worth a thought. 



14 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Not so, my friend; if this poor life be all 

Our Father has vouchsafed them, surely they 
To whom no glad to-morrow may befall 
Have all the better claim to their to-day. 


QUESTIONS 
By Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Is there not something in the pleading eye 
Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns 
The law that bids it suffer? Has it not 
A claim for some remembrance in the book 
That fills its pages with the idle words 
Spoken of man? Or is it only clay, 

Bleeding and aching in the potter’s hand, 

Yet all his own to treat it as he will, 

And when he will to cast it at his feet, 
Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore? 

My dog loves me, but could he look beyond 
His earthly master, would his love extend 
To Him who—hush! I will not doubt that He 
Is better than our fears, and will not wrong 
The least, the meanest of created things. 


ONCE ON A TIME 

By Margaret Benson 

Once on a time I used to dreani 

Strange spirits moved about my way, 
And I might catch a vagrant gleam, 

A glint of pixy or of fay; 


PRELUDE 


15 


Their lives were mingled with my own, 

So far they roamed, so near they drew; 

And when I from a child had grown, 

I woke—and found my dream was true. 

For one is clad in coat of fur, 

And one is decked with feathers gay; 

Another, wiser, will prefer 

A sober suit of Quaker gray: 

This one’s your servant from his birth, 
And that a Princess you must please, 

And this one loves to wake your mirth, 
And that one likes to share your ease. 

O gracious creatures, tiny souls! 

You seem so near, so far away, 

Yet while the cloudland round us rolls, 
We love you better every day. 


AN ANIMAL SONG 

(For Lone Hunter's Stories of the Fur Folk ) 

By Kathleen Conyngham Greene 

These are your brothers; listening you have heard 
Their thin faint voice that speaks without a word, 
That speaks from beast to beast since life began, 
And oh! so rarely speaks from beast to man. 

For you, I think, with open eyes have trod 
The long, long road that leads at last to God: 

And over all the centuries between 

Look and remember where our lives have been. 



16 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And, seeing that we rose, can trust that they 
Not unrecorded suffer day by day; 

Can trace the purpose through their endless pain, 
And hold their loves and labours not in vain. 

These are your beasts. Too low, we say, for sin, 
Unsharing in the fight the world must w r in: 

We spurn them, scorn them, slaughter them for 
play— 

Are we more fit for Heaven than such as they? 

April in the city 

By Elisabeth Scollard 

Her lyric laughter ripples down the street; 

The echoing tread of feet 
Goes surging by the door 
As in the countless April tides of yore; 

A tender touch of green 
Amid the parks is seen, 

And down the bay 

The blue-gold flag of day 

Has been unfurled across a height of sky; 

A breeze drifts by . 

Bringing a hint of dancing daffodils 
And some quaint garden where the sunlight spills 
Its mellow loveliness; the tired streets sing 
Beneath the magic of another spring; 

And yet how much, how more than much they miss 
Who know no other April day than this 
Deep in the heart of town! 

Theirs is no wonder of green sprung from brown, 


PRELUDE 


17 


Music of melting snows 

Or song of wind that blows 

Across far hills where blue-eyed violets wake; 

They see no pine grove bordering a lake; 

The tragedy is theirs who never trod 
Paths made by God; 

An artifice of spring is all they know 
Here in the city’s endless ebb and flow. 


A BROOK IN THE CITY 

By Robert Frost 

A farmhouse lingers, though averse to square 
With the new city street it has to wear 
A number in. But what about the brook 
That held the house as in an elbow-crook? 

I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength 
And impulse, having dipped a finger length 
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed 
A flower to try its currents where they crossed. 
The meadow grass could be cemented down 
From growing under pavements of a town; 

The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame. 

Is water wood to serve a brook the same? 

How else dispose of an immortal force 
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source 
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was 
thrown 

Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone 
In fetid darkness still to live and run— 

And all for nothing it had ever done 


18 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Except forget to go in fear perhaps. 

No one would know except for ancient maps 
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder 
If from its being kept forever under, 

These thoughts may not have risen that so keep 
This new-built city from both work and sleep. 

THE SPIRIT OF NATURE 

By Richard Realf 

O Earth! thou hast not any wind that blows 
Which is not music; every weed of thine, 
Pressed rightly, flows in aromatic wine; 

And every humble hedge-row flower that grows, 
And every little brownbird that doth sing, 

Hath something greater than itself, and bears 
A living word to every living thing, 

Albeit it holds the message unawares. 

All shapes and sounds have something which is not 
Of them; a spirit broods amid the grass, 
Vague outlines of the everlasting thought 
Lie in the melting shadows as they pass, 

And touch of an eternal presence thrills 
The fringes of the sunsets and the hills. 

HIS EPITAPH 

By Clarence E. Flynn 

He wasn’t rich; he wasn’t great, 

His place was lowly and obscure. 

His clothing was not up-to-date, 

His house was tumble-down and poor. 


PRELUDE 


19 


No special honor did he claim. 

He never walked with lords and kings. 
No glory has illumed his name, 

But he was kind to helpless things. 

He won no victories to boast. 

He made no conquests, waged no strife. 
He never led a conquering host; 

He lived an unpretentious life. 

But, when is writ the judgment scroll, 
And Time its final verdict brings, 

This will be said of him: his soul 
Was rich in love for helpless things. 


ON THE DEDICATION OF A DRINKING 

FOUNTAIN 

Alameda, California 
By Charles Keeler 

The skies yielded up their bounty unto the earth; 

In the Sierra heights the thunder-cloud gave of its 
plenty, 

And the leaden curtain of the mist of the winter moons 
From seaward and the south swept in to drench the 
• valleys; 

Yea, the teeming mothers of the heavens gave birth to 
the rain children, 

And the earth was gladdened and sent up pseans of joy. 
The grass-blades were the prayers of the grateful land, 
And the happy flowers were the hymns of the exultant 
earth. 


20 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Then all the little rillets began to sing songs of praise; 
Jubilant canticles of swelling brooks arose from every 
mountain side, 

And the voices of streams all joined in a grand halle¬ 
lujah chorus, 

And the rivers chanted in deep-voiced harmony thanks¬ 
giving to the Sender of Rain. 

O ye babbling brooks and mellifluous rills, 

O ye laughing waterfalls and crystal cascades, 

O ye joyous life-giving waters, careering deliriously 
downward, 

Sing Te Deums triumphal on the awakening of spirit 
from earth! 

In the mountains loom the titan watchmen pine-trees, 
And the vast Sequoias near their sentinel towers anear 
the streams; 

In the valley-lands the oaks, benignant guardians, 
Spread their gnarled boughs beside the rivers. 

There the wild birds come to drink, 

And the thirsty bear leads forth her cubs to lap the tide, 
And the native woman, grinding acorns in potholes by 
the river, 

Scoops up the water in the hollow of her hand to quench 
her thirst. 

Then, lo, another day, another race, another world! 

The white man, he who loves power more than beauty, 
The ravager of nature, the destroyer of the forest, 

The slayer of all wild things, of trees and flowers and 
birds. 


PRELUDE 


21 


Cometh unto the land, and, glorying in his might, 
Lays waste all things most fair. 

He buildeth cities and the joyous streams he leadeth 
into murky sewers, 

Yea, the sweet springs he polluteth and hideth beneath 
the ground. 

Where once were flower-starred banks and sighing trees 
He buildeth drear walls and sad unlovely temples. 

But the still small voice of the brooklet aye whispers 
unto him, 

And the mute appeals of thirsty brutes still clamor for 
the life-giving water. 

Though the deer and the mountain lion no longer roam 
abroad, 

The helpless beasts by man subdued look up into his face 
And silent beg for drink. 

Then somewhere in the great cold heart of man 
Awakens the spirit of tenderness and compassion, 

And the selfish monster arouses out of his lethargy, 

And the God-spark kindles love in him, 

And he knows that the beast is his brother; 

Aye, he knows that there is but one family and one 
Father, 

And he loves the helpless ones and stretches out a hand 
to them. 

Come, come, 0 children, little brothers and great, 

Let us drink together, for this is the holy sacrament, 
This is the communion service in which we all may join, 
This, the life-giving water, O my brothers, little birds 
and faithful dogs and patient horses, 

The same sweet water that quenches your thirst and 


mine, 


22 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Drink of this holy fountain reared in the midst of the 
sordid city, 

Drink that you may be appeased and satisfied, 

Drink, for such is the will of God, my brothers, 

And he who thinks of the least of the children of the 
all-merciful Father, 

Aye he shall be rewarded with the gift of love from on 
high, 

And the bond of fellowship shall gather him in with its 
benediction. 


COMPASSION 
An Ode 

In Celebration of the Centenary of the Royal Society 
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals 

By Thomas Hardy 

I 

Backward among the dusky years 
A lonesome lamp is seen arise, 

Lit by a few fain pioneers 
Before incredulous eyes. 

We read the legend that it lights: 

“ Why should throughout this land of historied rights 
Mild creatures, despot-doomed, bewildered, plead 
Their often hunger, thirst, pangs, prisonment, 

In deep dumb gaze more eloquent 
Than tongues of widest heed? ” 


PRELUDE 

II 


What was faint-written, read in a breath 
In that year—ten-times-ten away— 

A larger clearer conscience saith 
More sturdily to-day. 

But still those innocents are thralls 
To throbless hearts, near, far, that hear no calls 
Of honour towards their too-dependent frail; 

And from Columbia Cape to Ind we see 
How helplessness breeds tyranny 
In power above assail. 

Ill 

Cries still are heard in secret nooks, 

Till hushed with gag or slit or thud; 

And hideous dens whereon none looks 
Are blotched with needless blood. 

But here, in battlings, patient, slow, 
Much has been won—more, maybe, than we know - 
And on we labour stressful. “ Ailinon! ” 

A mighty voice calls: u But may the good prevail! 
And 66 Blessed are the merciful! ” 

Calls yet a mightier one. 

January 22, 192J^.. 













■'//'•V/i 



25 
































There is nevertheless, a certain respect and a general 
duty of humanity that ties us, not only to beasts that 
have life and sense, but even to trees and plants. 

Of Cruelty. Michael de Montaigne. 


26 


THE ADORATION OF THE TREES 


GOOD COMPANY 
By Karle Wilson Baker 

To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees, 

The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; 

And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star 

That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine. 

The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk 

Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and 
fine; 

And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue 
smoke— 

Lord , who am I that they should stoop—these holy folk 
of thine? 


SERMONS IN TREES 
By Florence Wilkinson 

The purple of early November 
Lies like a dream on the hill; 

In this basking hollow of woodland 
The berry-vines glitter and thrill, 
And a maple is hushed to remember 
Tranced days of quiet September, 

And the gold that she used to spill. 

27 



28 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


My feet through the wood-path bearing 
Are an alien noise in the dale, 

Stirring to wings of terror 

A partridge or two from the trail; 

So with my uncourteous daring 
I have hindered their leisurely faring, 

The pretty brown birds of the dale. 

I am humbled and full of repentance 
For my race’s enmity, 

That these gentle-eyed wood-creatures 
Should whir from their hostelry; 

And I fain would make their acquaintance 
That they should reverse the sentence 
And not be afraid of me. 

A tawny squirrel comes whisking 
Around the bole of a tree, 

With his bright shy look untroubled 
And his tail a-quiver with glee; 

I am glad of his billowy risking, 

The trustful heart of his frisking; 

And I thank my brother the squirrel, 

For his friendliness to me. 


TREES 

By Joyce Kilmer 

I think that I shall never see 
A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed 
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; 


ADORATION OF THE TREES 29 


A tree that looks at God all day 
And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in summer wear 
A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 
Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me, 
But only God can make a tree. 


A WASTED MORNING 
By Abbie Farwell Brown 

I wasted a morning! 

Where ? And Why ? 

I let swift hours go silently by, 

As I lay at the foot of an ancient tree, 

And let God’s universe talk to me. 

Wind and shadow, cloud and bird, 

Spoke each to my heart a musical word. 

The little brown cone that fell on my cheek, 

The squirrel who mocked with an impudent squeak, 
The golden mushroom brimmed with death, 

The twin-flower blessing the air with its breath; 
Old spider spinning above my head 
A magical dream with her rainbow thread; 

The liliput vases of moss below; 

The sudden caw of a picket crow; 


30 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


The rhythmical green of a supple snake 
Quivering into a lair of brake; 

The grumbling bee, the whispering pine— 
What need had they for a word of mine? 
They lived the poem; they wove the spell 
No tongue could utter, no phrases tell; 
And a human voice could but disgrace 
The eloquent stillness of the place. 

So I lay at the foot of the ancient tree, 
And let God’s free verse sing to me. 

A B C’S IN GREEN 

By Leonora Speyer 

The trees are God’s great alphabet: 
With them He writes in shining green 
Across the world His thoughts serene. 

He scribbles poems against the sky 
With a gay, leafy lettering, 

For us and for our bettering. 

The wind pulls softly at His page, 
And every star and bird 
Repeats in dutiful delight His word, 
And every blade of grass 
Flutters to class. 

Like a slow child that does not heed, 

I stand at summer’s knees, 

And from the primer of the wood 
I spell that life and love are good, 

I learn to read. 



ADORATION OF THE TREES 31 


TREE FEELINGS 
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman 

I wonder if they like it—being trees? 

I suppose they do. 

It must feel good to have the ground so flat, 

And feel yourself stand right straight up like that— 
So stiff in the middle—and then branch at ease, 

Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow, 
And all those fringy leaves that flutter so. 

You’d think they’d break off at the lower end 
When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend. 
But then you think of all the roots they drop, 

As much at bottom as there is on top,— 

A double tree, widespread in earth and air 
Like a reflection in the water there. 

I guess they like to stand still in the sun 
And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run; 
And like to feel the rain run through their hair 
And slide down to the roots and settle there. 

But I think they like wind best. From the light touch 
That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much, 

To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide, 

And all the time so stiff and strong inside! 

And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel 
How long their roots are, and the earth how leal! 

And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost! 

And jewelled martyrdom of fiery frost! 

And fruit-trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem, 

But to be apples—And bow down with them! 



32 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE HEALING OF THE WOOD 

By Clinton Scollard 

To heal mine aching moods, 

Give me God’s virgin woods, 

His cloistral solitudes, 

Where none intrudes! 

A dim sequestered place, 

With leaves that link and lace, 
Where peace and primal grace 
Meet face to face. 

There would I gain heart’s-ease 
From the sweet calm of trees, 
And the low melodies 
Of birds and bees. 

There would the balm distill 
A soothing for all ill; 

With cheerfulness the rill 
My heart would fill. 

I would go softly thence 
With a far kindlier sense; 

With more benevolence, 

And less pretence. 

Fairer the sky would ope; 

Less would I, faltering, grope; 
But tread life’s onward slope 
With surer hope! 


ADORATION OF THE TREES 33 


MY LEGACY 
By Ethelwyn Wether aid 

The little tree I planted out 
And often muse upon, 

May be alive to grow and thrive 
And out into the sunlight strive, 
When I am dead and gone. 

So it shall be my legacy 
To toilers in the sun, 

So sweet its shade, each man and maid 
May be induced to take a spade 
And plant another one. 

THE TREE’S WAY 

By George Cronyn 

The high trees are honest folk; 

They do not stand so much aloof 
Up under heaven’s roof, 

Altho’ they are earth’s fairest cloak. 
Their lives are very calm and slow; 
They wait for coming things to come, 
They wait, they rest, they ponder some 
Purpose forgotten long ago 
Like quiet folk; 

And sometimes I am moved to stroke 
Hand-greeting as I pass them near, 
And often I am sure I hear 
An answer from these stately folk! 


34 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


TREES 

By Angela Morgan 

Trees are astronomers, benign and hoary, 
Tellers of tall antiquity, who stand 
Bastioned upon the bosom of the land 
Yet freed eternally from earth’s red story. 

No lowly secrets of the dark soil 
Command their toil; 

Their learned eyes 

Fastened in solemn rapture on the skies 
Witness the bright procession of the stars move on 
From early dark till dawn. 

Seeing Orion with his blazing shield 
Marshal his hosts upon the battlefield. 

Beholding Perseus, whose winged leap 
Turns the devouring demon into stone, 

Melting the while a virgin heart from sleep 
That fair Andromeda shall be his own. 

Trees are historians who tell upon their pages 
The pageantry of ages. 

No earthly dwellers they 
Who watch all day 
The scenic splendor of the sky 
Drifting by. 

Battles and beauties, palaces that rear 
Imperial domes within the painted atmosphere. 
Princes on prancing steeds, 

Heroic deeds 

Unseen of man, whose eager hours are spent 
In ways unseemly to the firmament. 


ADORATION OF THE TREES 3 5 


Fever and fret are stranger to the trees 
Riding among the stars in giant ease, 

Dwelling amid an ecstasy of light. . . . 

Such glory as would stun our smaller sight. 

Trees are historians who strive to render, 

Year upon year, the record of the sky’s splendor. 
Shedding their flaming stars for us to see, 
Printing their new green pages, tirelessly. 

While we, who gather handfuls of their gold 
See not it is the starlight that we hold! 


GREEN LEAVES 
By Basho 

Ah, how sublime— 

The green leaves, the young leaves, 
In the light of the sun! 


TAPESTRY TREES 
By William Morris 

Oak. I am the Roof-tree and the Keel: 
I bridge the seas for woe and weal. 

Fir. High o’er the lordly oak I stand, 
And drive him on from land to land. 

Ash. I heft my brother’s iron bane; 

I shaft the spear and build the wain. 



36 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Yew. Dark down the windy dale I grow, 

The father of the fateful Bow. 

Poplar. The war shaft and the milking-bowl 
I make, and keep the hay-wain whole. 

Olive. The King I bless; the lamps I trim; 

In my warm wave do fishes swim. 

Apple-tree. I bowed my head to Adam’s will; 
The cups of toiling men I fill. 

Vine. I draw the blood from out the earth; 

I store the sun for winter mirth. 

Orange-tree. Amidst the greenness of my night 
My odorous lamps hang round and bright. 

Fig-tree. I who am little among trees 
In honey-making mate the bees. 

Mulberry-tree. Love’s lack hath dyed my berries 
red: 

For Love’s attire my leaves are shed. 

Pear-tree. High o’er the mead-flowers’ hidden 
feet 

I bear aloft my burden sweet. 

Bay. Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown 
Of living song and dead renown! 


ADORATION OF THE TREES 37 


MY CATHEDRAL 
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines 

Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones ; 
The arch beneath them is not built with stones, 
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, 
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines; 

No organ but the wind here sighs and moans, 
No sepulchre conceals a martyr’s bones, 

No marble bishop on his tomb reclines. 

Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves, 

Gives back a softened echo to thy tread! 
Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds, 

In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, 

Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled, 

And learn there may be worship without words. 

TO THE FALLEN GUM-TREE ON 
MT. BAW-BAW 

By Douglas W. Sladen 

Yes, you lie there in state unearthly-solemn, 

As though you’d been a heaven-supporting column, 
Not a dead tree, of bark and foliage stript, 

Gigantic Eucalypt! 

Your brothers, standing still, look half-defiant, 

Half in mute silence for the fallen giant: 

I doubt if aught so great e’er fell so far 

Except a falling star. 


38 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


How tall would you have grown in course of Nature? 
How old are your five hundred feet of stature? 

Can you remember Noah and the flood 

When you were yet a bud? 

Standing beside your trunk, one almost fancies 
That he beholds the Middle Age romances, 

And that the stories travellers have told, 

In books despised and old, 

May not have been without some slight foundation, 
Though they, of course, lost nothing in narration: 
Herodotus we dare not now ignore 

As Egypt we explore. 

What have you witnessed in your long existence 
On remote ranges in the Gippsland distance? 

Have you seen savage empires rise and fall, 

And stories tragical? 

Did some black Dido, flying from her lovers, 

Found a new kingdom, happy in thy covers, 

Until a Maori /Eneas came 

And lit the cursed flame? 

Or a dark Robin Hood devote his leisure 
To stealing skulls, and take a savage pleasure 
In making, what blacks have by way of, priests, 

Uneasy at their feasts? 

Or saw you earlier and gentler races, 

Of nobler instincts and with fairer faces, 

Die out before the circling boomerang 

And the black serpent’s fang? 


ADORATION OF THE TREES 39 

You look like a great chip of the creation, 

A relic of the former Dispensation, 

When men were forced to spend nine hundred years 

Here in this vale of tears. 


Yet to us, creatures of a day, it’s soothing 
To know that, as trees go, your years are nothing: 
There’s little in Australia but rocks 

Of old age orthodox. 


Lie there in fallen majesty, I love you! 

May you lie there till the last trump shall move you, 

Magnificent as Cheops in his crypt, 

You dead king Eucalypti 

(This tree, lying in one of the gorges of Mt. Baw-Baw, 
Gippsland, Victoria, measured, as it lay 480 feet long, and 
where the top had been broken off, had a diameter of two 
feet. Our most eminent naturalist pronounces it to have 
been at least 40 feet longer, as it stood.) 


THE LESSON OF A TREE 
By Walt Whitman 

I should not take either the biggest or the most pic¬ 
turesque tree to illustrate it. Here is one of my favorites 
now before me, a fine yellow poplar, quite straight, per¬ 
haps ninety feet high, and four feet thick at the butt. 
How strong, vital, enduring! how dumbly eloquent! 
What suggestions of imperturbability and being , as 
against the human trait of mere seeming . Then the 
qualities, almost emotional, palpably artistic, heroic, of 
a tree; so innocent and harmless, yet so savage. It is , 


40 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


yet says nothing. How it rebukes by its tough and 
equable serenity all weathers, this gusty-tempered little 
whiffet, man, that runs indoors at a mite of rain or 
snow. Science (or rather half-way science) scoffs at a 
reminiscence of dryad and hamadryad, and of trees 
speaking. But, if they don’t, they do as well as most 
speaking, writing, poetry, sermons—or rather they do a 
great deal better. I should say indeed that those old 
dryad reminiscences are quite as true as any, and pro¬ 
founder than most reminiscences we get. (“ Cut this 
out,” as the quack mediciners say, and keep by you.) 
Go and sit in a grove or woods, with one or more of 
those voiceless companions, and read the foregoing, and 
think. 





41 






































Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? 
Forbearance. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


\ 


r 


42 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


STUPIDITY STREET 
By Ralph Hodgson 

I saw with open eyes 
Singing birds sweet 
Sold in the shops 

For the people to eat, 
Sold in the shops of 
Stupidity Street. 

I saw in vision 

The worm in the wheat, 
And in the shops nothing 
For people to eat; 
Nothing for sale in 
Stupidity Street. 


THE BIRDS 

By Jack Collins Squire 

Within mankind’s duration, so they say, 

Khephren and Ninus lived but yesterday. 

Asia had no name till man was old 
And long had learned the use of iron and gold; 
And aeons had passed, when the first corn was planted, 
Since first the use of syllables was granted. 

43 


44 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Men were on earth while climates slowly swung, 
Fanning wide zones to heat and cold, and long 
Subsidence turned great continents to sea, 

And seas dried up, dried up interminably, 

Age after age; enormous seas were dried 
Amid wastes of land. And the last monsters died. 

Earth wore another face. O since that prime 
Man with how many works has sprinkled time! 
Hammering, hewing, digging tunnels, roads; 
Building ships, temples, multiform abodes. 

How, for his body’s appetites, his toils 
Have conquered all earth’s products, all her soils; 
And in what thousand thousand shapes of art 
He has tried to find a language for his heart! 

Never at rest, never content or tired: 

Insatiate wanderer, marvellously fired, 

Most grandly piling and piling into the air 
Stones that will topple or arch he knows not where. 
And yet did I, this spring, think it more strange, 
More grand, more full of awe, than all that change, 
And lovely and sweet and touching unto tears, 
That through man’s chronicled and unchronicled 
years, 

And even into that unguessable beyond 
The water-hen has nested by a pond, 

Weaving dry flags into a beaten floor, 

The one sure product of her only lore. 

Low on a ledge above the shadowed water 
Then, when she heard no men, as nature taught her, 
Plashing around with busy scarlet bill 
She built that nest, her nest, and builds it still. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


45 


O let your strong imagination turn 

The great wheel backward, until Troy unburn, 

And then unbuild, and seven Troys below 
Rise out of death, and dwindle, and outflow, 

Till all have passed, and none has yet been there: 
Back, ever back. Our birds still crossed the air; 
Beyond our myriad changing generations 
Still built, unchanged, their known inhabitations. 

A million years before Atlantis was 

Our lark sprang from some hollow in the grass, 

Some old soft hoof-print in a tussock’s shade; 

And the wood-pigeon’s smooth snow-white eggs were 
laid, 

High amid green pines’ sunset-coloured shafts, 

And rooks their villages of twiggy rafts 
Set on the tops of elms, where elms grew then, 

And still the thumbling tit and perky wren 
Popped through the tiny doors of cosy balls 
And the blackbird lined with moss his high-built walls; 
A round mud cottage held the thrush’s young, 

And straws from the untidy sparrow’s hung. 

And, skimming forktailed in the evening air, 

When man first was were not the martens there? 
Did not those birds some human shelter crave, 

And stow beneath the cornice of his cave 
Their dry tight cups of clay? And from each door 
Peeped on a morning wiseheads three or four. 


Yes, daw and owl, curlew and crested hern, 
Kingfisher, mallard, water-rail, and tern, 

Chaffinch and greenfinch, wagtail, stonechat, ruff, 
Pied warbler, robin, fly-catcher, and chough, 


46 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Missel-thrush, magpie, sparrow-hawk, and jay, 
Built, those far ages gone, in this year’s way. 

And the first man who walked the cliffs of Raine, 

As I this year, looked down and saw the same 
Blotches of rusty red on ledge and cleft 
With grey-green spots on them, while right and left 
A dizzying tangle of gulls were floating and flying, 
Wheeling and crossing and darting, crying and cry¬ 
ing, 

Circling and crying, over and over and over, 

Crying with swoop and hover and fall and recover. 
And below on a rock against the grey sea fretted, 
Pipe-necked and stationary and silhouetted, 
Cormorants stood in a wise, black, equal row 
Above the nests and long blue eggs we know. 

O delicate chain over all the ages stretched, 

O dumb tradition from what far darkness fetched: 
Each little architect with its one design 
Perpetual, fixed and right in stuff and line, 

Each little ministrant who knows one thing, 

One learned rite to celebrate the spring. 

Whatever alters else on sea or shore, 

These are unchanging: man must still explore. 

PENSIONERS 
By W. M. Letts 

My Pensioners who daily 
Come here to beg their fare, 

For all their need dress gaily 
And have a jaunty air. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


47 


With “ Tira—lira—lira— 
Now of your charity 
Pray help the little brethren 
Of noble poverty.” 

One shines in glossy sable, 

One wears a russet coat, 

And one who seeks my table 
Has red about his throat. 
With “ Tira—lira—lira—” 
Gay waistcoat, speckled vest, 
Black cap and fine blue bonnet, 
They all come bravely dressed. 

To them I gladly scatter 
In this their time of need, 
Heap bread upon their platter 
And ask not for my meed, 

But in the jocund spring-time 
Their songs give back to me 
A thousand-fold—my brethren 
Of noble poverty. 


From “ MAY-DAY ” 

By Ralph Waldo Emerson 

O birds, your perfect virtues bring, 

Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight, 
Your manners for the heart’s delight, 

Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof, 

Here weave your chamber weather-proof, 



48 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Forgive our harms, and condescend 
To man, as to a lubber friend, 

And, generous, teach his awkward race 
Courage, and probity, and grace! 

A HEALTH TO THE BIRDS 

By Seumas MacManus 

Here’s a health to the birds one and all! 

A health to the birds great and small! 

The birds that from hill and hedge call. 

Through the highlands and islands of grey 
Donegal — 

Here’s a health to them. 

Health to them. 

Health to them all! 

I 

Here’s a health to the mavis! 

A health to the mavis that sits on the thorn, 

And trolls a gay breastful to brighten the morn, 
And lighten the load of the man in the corn! 

May its breast ne’er be tuneless, its heart ne’er 
forlorn— 

A health to the mavis! 

II 

Here’s a health to the leverock! 

A Health to the leverock that loves the blue sky ! 
No bog is too low, no hill is too high, 

And the moor’s not too poor, for the leverock to lie; 
May its name, and its fame, and its song, never die! 
A health to the leverock! 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


49 


III 

Here’s a health to the linnet! 

A health to the linnet that lilts on the tree, 

The little green linnet so pretty to see, 

The linnet whose tinkling tones gladden the lea— 
High health, and heart-wealth, little linnet, to thee! 
A health to the linnet! 

IV 

Here’s a health to the blackbird! 

A health to the blackbird who hides in the bush, 

In the glen, far from men, where the dark rivers 
rush, 

And rolls a full soul in the round notes that gush 
From his silver-toned throat at dawning’s first 
flush— 

A health to the blackbird! 

V 

Here’s a health to the wren! 

Ay, a health to the wren, too, the devil’s dear pet, 
Though thousands of years he’s owed a black debt, 
And it’s often we’ve made the vile thummikin 
sweat— 

But, away with old scores! forgive and forget! 
Here’s a health to the wren! 

VI 

Here’s a health to the birds one and all! 

A health to the birds great and small— 

The birds that from hill and hedge call, 


50 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Through the highlands and islands of grey 
Donegal— 

Here’s a health to them, 

Health to them, 

Health to them all! 


“ SING ON, BLITHE BIRD ” 

By William Motherwell 

I’ve plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut 
from the tree, 

But heart of happy little bird ne’er broken was by me. 

I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly 
peer 

With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if 
harm were near; 

I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it 
was good 

To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was 
in the wood. 

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth 
sing; 

He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his 
little wing. 

He will not fly, he knows full well, while chirping on that 
spray, 

I would not harm him for the world, or interrupt his lay. 

Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with 
summer gladness; 

It has been aching many a day with measures full of 
sadness! 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


51 


CHANTICLEER 
By Katharine Tynan 

Of all the birds from East to West 
That tuneful are and dear, 

I love that farmyard bird the best, 
They call him Chanticleer. 

Gold plume and copper plume. 

Comb of scarlet gay; 

9 Tis he that scatters night and gloom. 
And whistles back the day! 

He is the sun’s brave herald 
That, ringing his blithe horn, 

Calls round a world dew-pearled 
The heavenly airs of morn. 

O clear gold, shrill and bold! 

He calls through creeping mist 

The mountains from the night and cold 
To rose and amethyst. 

He sets the birds to singing, 

And calls the flowers to rise; 

The morning cometh, bringing 
Sweet sleep to heavy eyes. 

Gold plume and silver plume. 

Comb of coral gay; 

9 Tis he packs off the night and gloom. 
And summons home the day! 


52 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Black fear he sends it flying, 

Black care he drives afar; 

And creeping shadows sighing 
Before the morning star. 

The birds of all the forest 

Have dear and pleasant cheer, 

But yet I hold the rarest 
The farmyard Chanticleer. 

Red cock or black cock, 

Gold cock or white. 

The flower of all the feathered flock. 
He whistles back the light! 


A LITTLE BIRD 

By Ellen M. Huntington Gates 

I know a little bird that sings 
Its anthem from a slender tower, 
Then from a cedar bough it swings 
And seems as fragile as a flower. 

I long to hold it in my hand 

And tell it of my passing days; 

I wish to make it understand 
How much I love its little ways. 

But ah! the bird is wondrous wise; 

It sits superior in its place 
Till something calls it, and it flies 
And flings its shadow in my face. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


53 


Up! up it goes! an atom fine 

That knows the secrets of the Blue, 
And meets with no restraining line 
Among the clouds it passes through. 

What thing is this that God has made 
And set between the earth and sky, 
So blithe and small, yet unafraid 
Among His thunderbolts to fly? 


THE BIRD MAN 

By Lucy Branch Allen 

Mr. Sylvanus McFarland of South Bristol, Maine, began 
at the age of seventy, carving and painting the birds of his 
locality. At the age of seventy-six, he had made and 
shipped to different parts of the world sixteen thousand 
birds. Over sixty varieties were represented. 

His summer fled, but winter’s chill 
Bred in him no deadening blight, 

For underneath his cunning hand there thrill 
To life, and wing o’er distant hills their flight 
Those little birds, those happy birds 
That sang along his morning w r ay 
Of Beauty. 

A robin in a mist of rain, 

A bluebird on a blossomy bough, 

A veery fluting from some shadowy lane— 

His old remembering fingers mold them now— 
Dawn’s choristers, dawn’s winged words 
Chanting at set of sun their lay 
Of Beauty. 



54 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


O golden youth on the morning hill, 

With softly fluttering wings fair 
Visions wait! With all things lovely fill 

Your soul; capture to-day life’s glories rare, 
Then set them free—late singing birds, 
Fulfillment of your yesterday 
Of Beauty. 


THE MOTHER BIRD 

By Walter de la Mare 

Through the green twilight of a hedge 
I peered, with cheek on the cool leaves pressed, 
And spied a bird upon a nest; 

Two eyes she had beseeching me 
Meekly and brave, and her brown breast 
Throbb’d hot and quick above her heart; 

And then she oped her dagger bill,— 

’Twas not a chirp, as sparrows pipe 
At break of dav; ’twas not a trill, 

•J * 

As falters through the quiet even; 

But one sharp solitary note, 

One desperate, fierce, and vivid cry 
Of valiant tears, and hopeless joy, 

One passionate note of victory: 

Off, like a fool afraid, I sneaked, 

Smiling the smile the fool smiles best, 

At the mother bird in the secret hedge 
Patient upon her lonely nest. 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


55 


A BIRD IN THE HAND 

By Norman Gale 

Look at this ball of intractable fluff, 

Panting and staring with piteous eyes! 

What a rebellion of heart! what a ruff 

Tickles my hand as the missel-thrush tries, 

Pecking my hand with her termagant bill, 

How to escape (and I love her, the sweet!) 

Back where the clustering oaks on the hill 

Climb to the blue with their branches, and meet! 

Nay, polished beak, you are pecking a friend! 

Bird of the grassland, you bleed at the wing! 

Stay with me, love; in captivity mend 

Wrong that was wrought by the boy and his 
sling. 

Would that a Priest of the Birds might arise, 
Wonderful words on his lips to persuade 

Reasoning creatures to leave to the skies 
Song at its purest, a-throb in the glade! 

Bow, woodland heart, to the yoke for a while! 
Soon shall the lyrics of wind in the trees 

Stir you to pipe in the green forest-aisle— 

God send me there with the grass to my knees! 

Trusting to-day an affectionate breast 
Full of its duty to welcome and share, 

Build from the twigs of my friendship a nest 
Not to be plundered, Delight of the air! 



5G POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A MEADOW TRAGEDY 
By Dora Sigerson Shorter 

Here’s a meadow full of sunshine, 
Ripe grasses lush and high; 

There’s a reaper on the roadway, 
And a lark hangs in the sky. 

There’s a nest of love enclosing 
Three little beaks that cry; 

The reaper’s in the meadow 
And a lark hangs in the sky. 

Here’s a mead all full of summer, 
And tragedy goes by 

With a knife amongst the grasses, 
And a song up in the sky. 


THE RAPE OF THE NEST 

By Francis Adams 

In early spring I watched two sparrows build, 
And then their nest within the thickest hedge 
Construct, two small dear mates within whose life 
And love, foreshadowed and foreshadowing, I 
Had some sweet underpart. And so at last 
The little round blue eggs were laid, and her post 
The mother brooding kept, while far and wide 
He sought the food for both, or, weariness 
Compelling her, he changed and kept his post 
Within the nest, and she flew forth in turn. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


57 


One day, a schoolboy, or some other, came 
And caught her, took the eggs, and tore the nest, 
And went his way. Then, as I stood looking 
Through gathering tears and sobs, all swiftly 
winged, 

Food-bearing, came the lover back, and flew 
Into the thickest hedge. How shall we say 
How the sweet mate lost forever, the ruined home, 
And the hope of young, w r ith all life’s life and light 
Quenched at a moment forever, were to him? 

For grief like this grows dumb, deeper than words, 
And man and animal are only one. 

MY THRUSH 

By Mortimer Collins 

All through the sultry hours of June, 

From morning blithe to golden noon, 

And till the star of evening climbs 
The gray-blue East, a world too soon, 

There sings a Thrush amid the limes. 

God’s poet, hid in foliage green, 

Sings endless songs, himself unseen; 

Right seldom come his silent times. 

Linger, ye summer hours serene! 

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! 

Nor from these confines wander out, 

Where the old gun, bucolic lout, 

Commits all day his murderous crimes: 
Though cherries ripe are sweet, no doubt, 
Sweeter thy song amid the limes. 


58 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


May I not dream God sends thee there, 

Thou mellow angel of the air, 

Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes 
With music’s soul, all praise and prayer? 

Is that thy lesson in the limes? 

Closer to God art thou than I: 

His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly 
Through silent ether’s summer climes. 

Ah, never may thy music die! 

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! 

THRUSHES 
By Evelyn Underhill 

I think the thrush’s voice is more like God’s 
Than many a preacher’s telling of the Word; 

I think the mother-thrush, who turns the sods 
To find fat earth-worms for her baby bird— 
And, worn by her maternal toil, 

With busy eye and mild 

That marks each subtle movement of the soil 

Patiently tends upon her greedy child— 

She is the feathery image of that grace 
Which spends itself to feed our thankless race. 

THRUSHES 
By Karle Wilson Baker 

Through Tanglewood the thrushes trip, 

As brown as any clod, 

But in their spotted throats are hung 
The vesper-bells of God. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


59 


And I know little secret truths, 
And hidden things of good, 

Since I have heard the thrushes sing 
At dusk, in Tanglewood. 


THE FIRST BLUEBIRDS 

By Katharine Lee Bates 

The poor earth was so winter-marred, 
Harried by storm so long, 

It seemed no spring could mend her, 
No tardy sunshine render 
Atonement for such wrong. 

Snow after snow, and gale and hail, 
Gaunt trees encased in icy mail, 

The glittering drifts so hard 
They took no trace 
Of scared, wild feet, 

No print of fox and hare 
Driven by dearth 
To forage for their meat 
Even in dooryard bare 
And frosty lawn 

Under the peril of the human race; 
And then one primrose dawn, 

Sweet, sweet, O sweet, 

And tender, tender, 

The bluebirds woke the happy earth 
With song. 


60 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


BIRDS 

By Katharine Morse 

A bluebird in an apple-tree 
A glad adventure is to me; 

While, sudden glimpsed, the swallow’s dart 
Like laughter flicks across my heart; 

Grey-shadowed gulls with wide blown wings 
Wake in me vagrant hankerings; 

A silver thrush at dusk of day 
Calls from dim woods and then I pray. 

THE ORIOLE 

By Louise Helen Coburn 

Hark! do you hear that note, sustained and clear? 
Come, look into the top of yonder tree! 

No, higher—higher yet! There, do you see? 

It is the Oriole, that’s lighted here 
To bring a bit of tropic splendor near,— 

A vision of the warmth and brilliancy 
Of southern coloring to you and me. 

Now he is stirring! There’s a gleam of sheer 
Translucent flame, and he has flown away. 

We welcome, do we not, our timid guest; 

Upon our tallest elm, if he will stay, 

He and his mate shall hang their hammock nest, 
Where the light zephyrs, that forever sway 
The pendent leaves, shall rock their babes to rest. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


61 


TO SOME PHILADELPHIA SPARROWS 

By Jeannette Marks 

Men say unfriendly words of you, poor birds! 
And I? I praise you for your saucy joy 
On dusty streets; I love you for your twitter 
In vines that cling to heated city walls; 

Your noisy congregations on the trees; 
Unchurchly ways of saying this and that 
About your brother men; your gaieties 
In parks near by a fountain’s dripping brim. 

Men say your manners are not fine. And, too, 
They call you scavengers, they call you thief 
And enemy to other prettier birds. 

Perhaps we are one feather, you and I! 

I would not hold it any grief to be 
Your brother bird upon the city street. 

I love you, chatterers! Yet I have heard 
The lark in other lands, the thrush in this. 

Dull many a day had been without your din, 
Your wrangles under foot, your shameless ways. 

Men say unfriendly words of you. Of me 
They speak unkindly, too. Yet see how gay 
We are! Ah, well, we are one feather, you 
And I! We have the city streets for plunder, 
The eaves for wonder, and above there is 
The sky! 


62 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE SONG SPARROW 

By Henry van Dyke 

There is a bird I know so well, 

It seems as if he must have sung 
Beside my crib when I was young; 

Before I knew the way to spell 

The name of even the smallest bird, 

His gentle-joyful song I heard. 

Now see if you can tell, my dear, 

What bird it is that, every year, 

Sings “ Sweet — sweet—sweet — very merry cheer. 

He comes in March, when winds are strong, 

And snow returns to hide the earth; 

But still he warms his heart with mirth, 

And waits for May. He lingers long 
While flowers fade; and every day 
Repeats his small, contented lay; 

As if to say, we need not fear 

The season’s change, if love is here 

With “ Sweet — sweet — sweet—very merry cheer. 

He does not wear a Joseph’s-coat 
Of many colors, smart and gay; 

His suit is Quaker brown and gray, 

With darker patches at his throat. 

And yet of all the well-dressed throng 
Not one can sing so brave a song. 

It makes the pride of looks appear 

A vain and foolish thing, to hear 

His “ Sweet — sweet — sweet—very merry cheer. 9 * 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


63 


A lofty place he does not love, 

But sits by choice, and well at ease, 

In hedges, and in little trees 
That stretch their slender arms above 
The meadow-brook; and there he sings 
Till all the field with pleasure rings; 

And so he tells in every ear, 

That lowly homes to heaven are near 

In “ Sweet — sweet — sweet—very merry cheer” 

I like the tune, I like the words; 

They seem so true, so free from art, 

So friendly, and so full of heart, 

That if but one of all the birds 
Could be my comrade everywhere, 

My little brother of the air, 

This is the one I’d choose, my dear, 

Because he’d bless me, every year, 

With “ Sweet — sweet — sweet—very merry cheer” 

CHICKADEE 

By Hilda Conkling 

\ 

(Written at the age of six) 

The chickadee in the apple-tree 
Talks all the time very gently. 

He makes me sleepy. 

I rock away to the sea-lights. 

Far off I hear him talking 
The way smooth bright pebbles 
Drop into water. 

Chick-a -dee-dee-dee. 



64 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE TITMOUSE 

By Ralph Waldo Emerson 

You shall not be overbold 
When you deal with arctic cold, 

As late I found my lukewarm blood 
Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. 

How should I fight? my foeman fine 
Has million arms to one of mine: 

East, west, for aid I looked in vain, 

East, west, north, south, are his domain. 
Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home; 
Must borrow his winds who there would come. 
Up and away for life! be fleet!— 

The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, 

Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, 
Curdles the blood to the marble bones, 

Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, 
And hems in life with narrowing fence. 

Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,— 

The punctual stars will vigil keep,— 
Embalmed by purifying cold; 

The winds shall sing their dead-march old, 
The snow is no ignoble shroud, 

The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. 

Softly,—but this way fate was pointing, 
’Twas coming fast to such anointing, 

When piped a tiny voice hard by, 

Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 

Chic-chicadeedee! saucy note 

Out of sound heart and merry throat, 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


65 


As if it said, “ Good day, good sir! 

Fine afternoon, old passenger! 

Happy to meet you in these places, 

Where January brings few faces.” 

This poet, though he live apart, 

Moved by his hospitable heart, 

Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, 

To do the honors of his court, 

As fits a feathered lord of land; 

Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, 
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 
Prints his small impress on the snow, 

Show feats of his gymnastic play, 

Head downward, clinging to the spray. 

Here w r as this atom in full breath, 
Hurling defiance at vast death; 

This scrap of valor just for play 
Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, 
As if to shame my weak behavior; 

I greeted loud my little savior, 

“ You pet! what dost here? and what for? 
In these woods, thy small Labrador, 

At this pinch, wee San Salvador! 

What fire burns in that little chest 
So frolic, stout and self-possest? 
Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; 
Ashes and jet all hues outshine. 

Why are not diamonds black and gray, 

To ape thy dare-devil array? 

And I affirm, the spacious North 
Exists to draw thy virtue forth. 


66 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


I think no virtue goes with size; 

The reason of all cowardice 
Is, that men are overgrown, 

And, to be valiant, must come down 
To the titmouse dimension.” 

’Tis good-will makes intelligence, 

And I began to catch the sense 
Of my bird’s song: “ Live out of doors 
In the great woods, on prairie floors. 

I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, 
I too have a hole in a hollow tree; 

And I like less when Summer beats 
With stifling beams on these retreats, 
Than noontide twilights which snow makes 
With tempest of the blinding flakes. 

For well the soul, if stout within, 

Can arm impregnably the skin; 

And polar frost my frame defied, 

Made of the air that blows outside.” 

With glad remembrance of my debt, 

I homeward turn; farewell, my pet! 

When here again thy pilgrim comes, 

He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. 
Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, 
Thou first and foremost shalt be fed; 

The Providence that is most large 
Takes hearts like thine in special charge, 
Helps who for their own need are strong, 
And the sky doats on cheerful song. 
Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant 
O’er all that mass and minster vaunt; 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


67 


For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, 
As ’twould accost some frivolous wing, 
Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be! 
And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee! 

I think old Caesar must have heard 
In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, 
And, echoed in some frosty wold, 
Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. 

And I will write our annals new, 

And thank thee for a better clew, 

I, who dreamed not when I came here 
To find the antidote of fear, 

Now hear thee say in Roman key, 
Paean! Veni, vidi, vici. 


TITMOUSE 

By Walter de la Mare 

If you would happy company win, 
Dangle a palm-nut from a tree, 

Idly in green to sway and spin, 

Its snow-pulped kernel for bait; and see, 
A nimble titmouse enter in. 


Out of earth’s vast unknown of air, 

Out of all summer, from wave to wave, 
He’ll perch, and prank his feathers fair, 
Jangle a glass-clear wildering stave, 
And take his commons there— 


68 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

This tiny son of life; this spright, 

By momentary Human sought, 

Plume will his wing in the dappling light, 
Clash timbrel shrill and gay— 

And into time’s enormous nought, 
Sweet-fed, will flit away. 


BOB WHITE 

By Edgar A. Guest 

Out near the links where I go to play 
My favorite game from day to day, 

There’s a friend of mine that I’ve never met, 
Walked with or broken bread with, yet 
I’ve talked to him oft and he’s talked to me 
Whenever I’ve been where he’s chanced to be; 
He’s a cheery old chap who keeps out of sight, 
A gay little fellow whose name’s Bob White. 

Bob White! Bob White! I can hear him call 
As I follow the trail to my little ball— 

Bob White! Bob White! with a note of cheer 
That was just designed for a mortal ear; 
Then I drift far off from the world of men 
An’ stand an’ answer him back right then, 

An’ we whistle away to each other there, 

Glad of the life which is ours to share. 

Bob White! Bob White! May you live to be 
The head of a numerous family! 

May you boldly call to your friends out here, 
With never an enemy’s gun to fear; 


69 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 

I’m a better man as I pass along, 

For your cheery call and your bit of song; 
May your food be plenty and skies be bright 
To the end of your days, good friend, Bob White! 


PARTRIDGES 

By Alonzo Teall Worden 

Under the alders, along the brooks, 

Under the hemlocks, along the hill, 

Spreading their plumage with furtive looks, 
Daintily pecking the leaves at will; 

Whir! and they flit from the startled sight,— 

And the forest is silent, the air is still. 

Crushing the leaves ’neath our careless feet, 
Snapping the twigs w T ith a heavy tread, 

Dreamy October is late and sweet, 

And stooping we gather a blossom dead; 

Boom! and our heart has a thunderous beat 
As the gray apparition flits overhead. 

Up from the path with a thunderous roar 
That startles the dreamer amid his dreams, 

Till he peers into vistas that open before 
For the flash of the plumage with silver gleams: 
Why, modest brown hermit, thus fearful of him 
Who would share in the secrets of forest and 
streams ? 


70 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

I lie on windrows of leaves and gaze 
At thy innocent preening of serrate wing, 

Or watch where the last crimson colors blaze, 
And the red autumn leaves to the maple cling,— 
Too fond of this life myself, to destroy 
The motion and life I am worshiping. 


THE LIBRARY DOVE 

By John Russell Hayes 

Colwmba, O Columba, come again , 

And murmur softly at my window-pane! 

One day a dove in at our window flew, 

A comely dove with neck of iris hue. 

He seemed bewildered, far from home, and lost, 

As if on some wild wind he had been tossed, 

Then in the after-lull had drifted down 
And sought a refuge in our friendly town;— 

I know not,—but for weeks he lingered near, 
And every day I heard his murmur clear 
And soft as music from a fairy flute 
Or far-heard throb of mandolin or lute, 

So gently would he murmur. 

He was tame, 

And every morning to the window came 
To eat the oats and corn I scattered there; 

Then would he croon, and preen his feathers fair 
And entertain me with his murmur sweet, 

While sideways on the sill with dainty feet 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


71 


He stepped, with air most solemn and sedate 
And head aslant, as pondering the fate 
That kept folks bound to books through such long 
hours 

While all outdoors was bright with sun and flowers! 

At last, in late October, off he flew. 

Alas, the lovely creature never knew 
How much I miss m} r little fairy friend, 

And how I hope a kindly fate will send 
This darling dove some day again to cheer 
Our dusty hours with murmured music clear, 

Columba, with your lovely Latin name, 

Come back again as long ago you came, 

And croon your pensive songs upon the sill; 

Tap on the window with your little bill 
And tell us how the sunshine and the flowers 
Rebuke us for our long and bookish hours. 
Columba, O Columba, come again. 

And murmur gently at my window-yane. 

THE BELFRY PIGEON 
By N. P . Willis 

On the cross-beams, under the Old South bell, 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well; 

In summer and winter that bird is there, 

Out and in with the morning air. 

I love to see him track the street, 

With his wary eye and active feet; 

And I often watch him as he springs, 

Circling the steeple with easy wings, 


72 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Till across the dial his shade has passed, 

And the belfry edge is gained at last. 

’Tis a bird I love with its brooding note, 

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; 
I often stop with the fear I feel, 

He runs so close to the rabbit wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell— 

Chime of the hour or funeral knell— 

The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 

When the tongue swings out to the midnight 
moon, 

When the sexton cheerily rings for noon; 

When the clock strikes clear at morning light, 
When the child is waked with “ Nine at night,” 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer— 
Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 

He broods on his folded feet unstirred; 

Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 

He takes the time to smooth his breast, 

Then drops again with filmed eyes, 

And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee! 


THE WILD DUCK’S NEST 
By William Wordsworth 

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-King 
Owns not a sylvan bower, or gorgeous cell 
With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 73 

Ceilinged and roofed, that is so fair a thing 
As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring 
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell 
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell; 

And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing. 
Words cannot paint the o’er shadowing yew-tree 
bough, 

And dimly-gleaming nest—a hollow crown 
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, 

Fine as the mother’s softest plumes allow: 

I gazed—and self-accused while gazing, sighed 
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride! 


WAGTAIL AND BABY 

By Thomas Hardy 

A baby watched a ford, whereto 
A wagtail came for drinking; 

A blaring bull went wading through, 
The wagtail showed no shrinking. 

A stallion splashed his way across, 
The birdie nearly sinking; 

He gave his plumes a twitch and toss, 
And held his own unblinking. 

Next saw the baby round the spot 
A mongrel slowly slinking; 

The wagtail gazed, but faltered not 
In dip and sip and prinking. 


74 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A perfect gentleman then neared; 

The wagtail, in a winking 
With terror rose and disappeared; 
The baby fell a-thinking. 


THE OWLS 

By Helen Granville-Barker 

Three little feathery owls flew overhead 
As I walked down the frozen garden path; 

One on the chestnut lit, one chose the pine, 

And one a twisted pear-tree, bare and brown. 

There in the garden it was still as death; 
Beyond the wintry meadows glowed the west, 
Rose that receded swiftly into gray; 

The little owls and I seemed all that lived. 

Softty I tiptoed near the chestnut-tree, 

Two little, shining, curious eyes looked out; 
And from the pear-tree two, and from the pine. 
I fancied for the moment we were friends. 


THE SANDPIPER 

By Celia Thaxter 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I; 

And fast I gather, bit by bit. 

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


75 


The wild waves reach their hands for it, 
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
As up and down the beach we flit,— 
One little sandpiper and I. 


Above our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud black and swift across the sky; 
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
Stand out the white lighthouses high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach 
I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 

As fast we flit along the beach,— 
One little sandpiper and I. 


I watch him as he skims along, 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; 

He starts not at my fitful song, 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 

He has no thought of any wrong; 

He scans me with a fearless eye; 

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, 
The little sandpiper and I. 


Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 
When the loosed storm breaks furiously? 
My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 
To what warm shelter canst thou fly? 

I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the sky; 

For are we not God’s children both, 
Thou, little sandpiper, and I? 


76 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

TO A WATERFOWL 

By William Cullen Bryant 

Whither, midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 

As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean-side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— 

The desert and illimitable air,— 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 

And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


77 


Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

ON SCARING SOME WATERFOWL IN 

LOCH-TURIT 

By Robert Burns 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 

For me your watery haunt forsake? 

Tell me, fellow r creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fty? 

Why disturb your social joys, 

Parent, filial, kindred ties? 

Common friend to you and me, 

Nature’s gifts to all are free: 

Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 

Busy feed, or wanton lave; 

Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 

Bide the surging billow’s shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 

Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 

Man, your proud usurping foe, 

Would be lord of all below*: 

Plumes himself in Freedom’s pride, 

Tyrant stern to all beside. 


78 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 

In his breast no pity dwells, 

Strong necessity compels, 

But man, to whom alone is given 
A ray direct from pitying Heaven, 
Glories in his heart humane— 

And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 

Only known to wand’ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv’let strays; 

Far from human haunts and ways; 
All on Nature you depend, 

And life’s poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man’s superior might, 

Dare invade your native right, 

On the lofty ether borne, 

Man with all his powers you scorn; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 

Other lakes and other springs; 

And the foe you cannot brave, 

Scorn at least to be his slave. 


WILD GEESE 

By Frederick Peterson 

How oft against the sunset sky or moon 

I watched that moving zigzag of spread wings 
In unforgotten Autumns gone too soon, 

In unforgotten Springs! 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS 79 

Creatures of desolation, far they fly 

Above all lands bound by the curling foam; 

In misty fens, wild moors and trackless sky 
These wild things have their home. 

They know the tundra of Siberian coasts, 

And tropic marshes by the Indian seas; 

They know the clouds and night and starry hosts 
From Crux to Pleiades. 

Dark flying rune against the western glow— 

It tells the sweep and loneliness of things, 
Symbol of Autumns vanished long ago. 

Symbol of coming Springs! 


THE WOUNDED GULL 

By Edmund Gosse 

Along a grim and granite shore 

With children and with wife I went, 
And in our face the stiff breeze bore 
Salt savours and a samphire scent. 

So wild the place and desolate, 

That on a rock before us stood— 
All upright, silent and sedate— 

Of slate-gray gulls a multitude. 

The children could not choose but shout 
To see these lovely birds so near, 
Whereat they spread their pinions out, 
Yet rather in surprise than fear. 



80 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


They rose and wheeled around the cape, 
They shrieked and vanished in a flock— 

But lo! one solitary shape 

Still sentinelled the lonely rock. 

The children laughed, and called it tame! 
But ah! one dark and shrivell’d wing 

Hung by its side; the gull was lame, 

A suffering and deserted thing. 

With painful care it downward crept; 

Its eye was on the rolling sea; 

Close to our very feet, it stept 

Upon the wave, and then—was free. 

Right out into the east it went, 

Too proud, we thought, to flap or shriek; 

Slowly it steered, in wonderment 
To find its enemies so meek. 

Calmly it steered, and mortal dread 
Disturbed nor crest nor glossy plume; 

It could but die, and being dead, 

The open sea should be its tomb. 

We watched it till we saw it float 
Almost beyond our furthest view; 

It flickered like a paper boat, 

Then faded in the dazzling blue. 

It could but touch an English heart, 

To find an English bird so brave; 

Our life-blood glowed to see it start 
Thus boldly on the leaguered w T ave; 


81 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 

And we shall hold, till life departs, 

For flagging days when hope grows dull, 
Fresh as a spring within our hearts, 

The courage of the wounded gull. 


SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN 

By Henry van Dyke 

Children of the elemental mother, 

Born upon some lonely island shore 
Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, 
Where the crested billows plunge and roar; 
Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, 
Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, 

In the far-off solitary places 

I have seen you floating wild and free! 


Here the high-built cities rise around you; 

Here the cliffs that tower east and west, 
Honeycombed with human habitations, 
Have no hiding for the sea-bird’s nest: 
Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; 

Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, 
Restless, up and down the watery highway, 
While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom. 


Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, 
Clank and clamour of the vast machine 
Human hands have built for human bondage 
Yet amid it all you float serene; 



82 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly 
Down to glean your harvest from the wave; 

In your heritage of air and w r ater, 

You have kept the freedom Nature gave. 

Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan 

Saw your wheeling flocks of white and gray; 

Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, 

Round the Half-Moon creeping up the bay; 

Even so your voices creaked and chattered, 
Laughing shrilly o’er the tidal rips, 

While your black and beady eyes were glistening 
Round the sullen British prison-ships. 

Children of the elemental mother, 

Fearless floaters ’mid the double blue, 

From the crowded boats that cross the ferries 
Many a longing heart goes out to you. 

Though the cities climb and close around us, 
Something tells us that our souls are free, 

While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour, 
While the river flow^s to meet the sea! 


THE SEA-MEW 
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

How joyously the young sea-mew 
Lay dreaming on the waters blue 
Whereon our little bark had thrown 
A little shade, the only one, 

But shadows ever man pursue. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 

Familiar with the waves and free 
As if their own white foam were he, 

His heart upon the heart of ocean 
Lay learning all its mystic motion, 

And throbbing to the throbbing sea. 

And such a brightness in his eye 
As if the ocean and the sky 
Within him had lit up and nurst 
A soul God gave him not at first, 

To comprehend their majesty. 

We were not cruel, yet did sunder 
His white wing from the blue waves under 
And bound it, while his fearless eyes 
Shone up to ours in calm surprise, 

As deeming us some ocean wonder. 

We bore our ocean bird unto 
A grassy place where he might view 
The flowers that curtsey to the bees, 

The waving of the tall green trees, 

The falling of the silver dew. 

But flowers of earth were pale to him 
Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim; 
And when earth’s dew around him lay 
He thought of ocean’s winged spray, 

And his eyes waxed sad and dim. 

The green trees round him only made 
A prison with their darksome shade; 

And drooped his wing, and mourned he 
For his own boundless glittering sea— 
Albeit he knew not they could fade. 


84 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Then One her gladsome face did bring, 

Her gentle voice’s murmuring, 

In ocean’s stead his heart to move 
And teach him what was human love: 

He thought it a strange, mournful thing. 

He lay down in his grief to die, 

(First looking to the sea-like sky 
That hath no waves) because, alas! 

Our human touch did on him pass, 

And, with our touch, our agony. 


THE EAGLE 

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

He clasps the crag w r ith hooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring’d with the azure w r orld, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls; 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 


THE LOON" 

By Amelia Josephine Burr 

Where shaken shallows multiply the moon, 
Alone amid the silence laughs the Loon. 
Heard far away across the night, he seems 
Some happy wood-god laughing in his dreams. 


SONGS IN MANY KEYS 


85 


THE BLACK VULTURE 

By George Sterling 

Aloof upon the day’s immeasured dome, 

He holds unshared the silence of the sky. 

Far down his bleak, relentless eyes descry 
The eagle’s empire and the falcon’s home— 

Far down, the galleons of sunset roam; 

His hazards on the sea of morning lie; 

Serene, he hears the broken tempest sigh 
Where cold sierras gleam like scattered foam. 

And least of all he holds the human sw^arm— 
Unwitting now that envious men prepare 

To make their dream and its fulfillment one, 
When, poised above the caldrons of the storm, 
Their hearts, contemptuous of death, shall dare 
His roads between the thunder and the sun. 


















































































A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but 
the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel. 

Proverbs 12 : 10 . 


88 


THE HORSE 


THE OLD PLOUGH-HORSE 
By Mahlon Leonard Fisher 

Worn-out and useless, lone, he stands and dreams, 

Day after day, the long sweet summer through: 

The last turf-ridge upturned, what is to do 
Save watch the crow-hordes, or a hawk that screams 
High o’er his master’s dooryard, till it seems 
The world was made a place for dreaming in? 

Around him, daisy-wheels ecstatic spin, 

And cattle splash, knee-deep, through cooling streams; 
But he, inert, thought-wrapt, oblivious, drifts, 

Dream-drawn, a-browse, towards other fields than these, 
Where first he felt the Spring’s quick kiss, and seas 
Of green about him swam. . . . His bent head lifts . . . 
Like some sweet message caught from far-off lands, 

He hears his mother whinny, where he stands! 

THE ARAB’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED 

By Caroline Norton 

My beautiful, my beautiful, that standest meekly by, 
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and 
fiery eye! 

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged 
speed, 

I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my Arab 
steed! 


89 


90 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Fret not with that impatient hoof—snuff not the breezy 
wind; 

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind! 

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his 
gold— 

Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell—thou’rt sold, my 
steed, thou’rt sold! 

Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must 
roam, 

To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the 
stranger’s home; 

Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed 
prepare; 

The silk mane that I braided once must be another’s 
care. 

The morning sun shall dawn again—but nevermore 
with thee 

Shall I gallop o’er the desert paths where we were wont 
to be; 

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er the sandy 
plain 

Some other steed with slower pace shall bear me home 
again. 

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing 
bright— 

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and 
light; 

And wdien I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer 
thy speed, 

Then must I startling wake to feel thou’rt sold, my 
Arab steed! 



THE HORSE 91 

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may 
chide, 

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy 
panting side, 

And the rich blood that’s in thee swells in thy indignant 
pain, 

Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each 
starting vein. 


Will they ill-use thee? if I thought—but no, it can¬ 
not be; 

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so 
free. 

And 3^et if haply when thou’rt gone this lonely heart 
should yearn, 

Can the hand that casts thee from it now command 
thee to return? 


“ Return! ” alas, my Arab steed! what will thy master 
do, 

When thou that wast his all of joy hast vanished from 
his view? 

When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through 
the gathering tears 

Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage 
appears? 


Slow and unmounted will I roam with wearied foot 
alone, 

Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast 
borne me on, 


92 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And sitting down by the green well, I’ll pause, and 
sadly think, 

“ ’Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw 
him drink.” 

When last I saw thee drink?—Away! the fevered dream 
is o’er! 

I could not live a day and know that we should meet no 
more; 

They tempted me, my beautiful—for hunger’s power is 
strong— 

They tempted me, my beautiful—but I have loved too 
long— 


Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that 
thou wert sold? 

’Tis false, ’tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back 
their gold! 

Thus—thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the dis¬ 
tant plains! 

Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his 
pains. 


THE BLOOD HORSE 

By Bryan Waller Procter 

Gamarra is a dainty steed, 

Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
Full of fire, and full of bone, 

With all his line of fathers known; 


THE HORSE 


93 


Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 

But blown abroad by the pride within! 

His mane is like a river flowing, 

And his eyes like embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night, 

And his pace as swift as light. 

Look,—how round his straining throat 
Grace and shifting beauty float; 

Sinewy strength is in his reins, 

And the red blood gallops through his veins: 
Richer, redder, never ran 
Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,— 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O’Brien’s blood itself! 

He, who hath no peer, was born 
Here, upon a red March morn. 

But his famous fathers dead 
Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, 

And the last of that great line 
Trod like one of a race divine! 

And yet,—he was but friend to one 
Who fed him at the set of sun 
By some lone fountain fringed with green; 
With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived (none else w r ould he obey 
Through all the hot Arabian day), 

And died untamed upon the sands 
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands. 



94 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


HASSAN TO HIS MARE 
By Bayard Taylor 

Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling! 

On my shoulder lay thy glossy head! 

Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, 
Here’s the half of Hassan’s scanty bread. 

Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! 

And thou know’st my water-skin is free: 

Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, 

And my strength and safety lie in thee. 

Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! 

Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: 

Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle,— 
Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I. 

Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, 

Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; 
They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness 
When they course with thee the desert-plains! 

Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, 

Let him bring his golden swords to me,— 

Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem; 

He would offer them in vain for thee. 

We have seen Damascus, O my beauty! 

And the splendor of the Pashas there: 

What’s their pomp and riches? Why, I would not 
Take them for a handful of thy hair! 


THE HORSE 


95 


ON THE PASSING OF THE LAST FIRE HORSE 
FROM MANHATTAN ISLAND 

By Kenneth Slade Ailing 

I remember the cleared streets, the strange suspense, 
As if a thunder-storm were under way; 
Magnificently furious, hurrying thence, 

The fire-eyed horses racing to the fray; 

Out of old Homer where the heroes are, 

Beating upon the whirlwind thunderous hoofs, 
Wild horses and plumed Ajax in his car: 

Oh, in those days we still possessed the proofs 
Men battled shouting by the gates of Troy, 

With shields of triple brass and spears of flame. 
With what distended nostrils; what fierce joy; 

What ring on stone and steel; those horses came; 
Like horses of gods that whirl to the dawn’s burning, 
They came, and they are gone, and unreturning. 

DIALOGUE OF THE HORSES 

(The Festival of Industry ) 

By Will Carleton 
First Horse 

We are the pets of men— 

The pampered pets of men! 

There is naught for us too gentle and good 
In the graceful days of our babyhood; 

We frisk and caper in childish glee— 

Oh, none so pretty and proud as we! 



96 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


They cheer and cherish us in our play— 
Oh, none so smilingly sweet as they! 

And when a little our lives have grown, 
Each has a table and room his own, 

A waiter to fill his bill of fare, 

A barber to clean and comb his hair. 

Yes, we are the pets of men— 

The pampered pets of men! 

They show us, gayly dressed and proud, 
To the eager eyes of the clamorous crowd; 
They champion us in the rattling race, 
They praise our beauty and cheer our pace 
They keep for us our family trees— 

They trumpet our names beyond the seas; 
They hang our portraits on their walls, 
And paint and garnish and gild our stalls. 
Yes, we are the pets of men— 

The pampered pets of men! 

Second Horse 

We are the slaves of men— 

The menial slaves of men! 

They lash us over the dusty roads, 

They bend us down with murderous loads; 
They fling vile insults on our track, 

And know that we cannot answer back; 

In the winds of Winter, or Summer sun, 
The tread of our toil is never done; 

And when we are weak, and old, and lame, 
And labor-stiffened, and bow r ed with shame 
And hard of hearing, and blind of eye, 
They drive us out in the world to die. 


THE HORSE 


97 


Yes, we are the slaves of men— 

The slaves of selfish men! 

They draft us into their bloody spites, 

They spur us, bleeding, into their fights; 

They poison our souls with their senseless ire 
And curse us into a storm of fire. 

And when to death we are bowed and bent, 
And take the ball that for them was meant, 
Alone they leave us to groan and bleed, 

And dash their spurs in another steed! 

Yes, we are the slaves of men— 

The slaves of brutish men! 

DAT OL’ MARE O’ MINE 
By Paul Laurence Dunbar 

Want to trade me, do you, mist ah? Oh, well, now, I 
reckon not, 

W’y you couldn’t buy my Sukey fu’ a thousan’ on de 
spot. 

Dat ol’ mare o’ mine? 

Yes, huh coat ah long an’ shaggy, an’ she ain’t no 
shakes to see; 

Dat’s a ring-bone, yes, you right, suh, an’ she got a 
on’ry knee, 

But dey ain’t no use in talkin’, she de only hoss fu’ me, 
Dat ol’ mare o’ mine. 

Co’se, I knows dat Suke’s contra’y, an’ she moughty 
ap’ to vex; 

But you got to mek erlowance fu’ de nature of huh sex; 
Dat ol’ mare o’ mine. 


98 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Ef you pull her on de lef’ han’; she plum ’termined to 
go right, 

A cannon couldn’t skeer huh, but she boun’ to tek a 
fright 

At a piece o’ common paper, or anyt’ing whut’s white, 
Dat ol’ mare o’ mine. 


W’en my eyes commence to fail me, dough, I trus’es to 
huh sight, 

An’ she’ll tote me safe an’ hones’ on de ve’y da’kes’ 
night, 

Dat ol’ mare o’ mine. 

Ef I whup huh, she jes’ switch huh tail, an’ settle to a 
walk, 

Ef I whup huh mo’, she shek huh haid, an’ lak ez not, 
she balk. 

But huh sense ain’t no ways lackin’, she do evah t’ing 
but talk, 

Dat ol’ mare o’ mine. 

t 

But she gentle ez a lady w’en she know huh beau kin 
see. 

An’ she sholy got mo’ gumption any day den you or me, 

Dat ol’ mare o’ mine. 

She’s a leetle slow a-goin’, an’ she moughty ha’d to sta’t, 

But we’s gittin’ ol’ togathah, an’ she’s closah to my 
hea’t, 

An’ I doesn’t reckon, mistah, dat she’d sca’cely keer to 
pa’t; 

Dat ol’ mare o’ mine. 


THE HORSE 


99 


POLO PONIES 
By Eleanor Baldwin 

Has Pegasus, then, visited the earth, 

Borne on great pinions lyrical with thunder, 

And these his foals,—this breed of racing wonder, 
Fearless and free, and sensible of worth? 

With flash of eye and silver gleam of girth. 
They charge, now neck to neck, now wheeled 
asunder, 

With shining sides, small feet that scorn to blunder, 
Dark nostrils trembling in their pride of birth. 
Sired from the skies, they eddy down the plain, 
Chestnut and black and the fast-flying dun, 

And swift and strong they crowd, and tense and 
fain, 

Eager as fire though the last goal is won, 

These wilding creatures gentled to the rein, 

These little brothers of the wind and sun. 








101 






















He was a gash and faithfu’ tyke 
As ever lapt a sheugh or dyke. 

Lauth. Robert Burns. 


102 


“ MY DOG AND I ” 


THE ROAD TO VAGABONDIA 
By Dana Burnet 

He was sitting on the doorstep as I went strolling by; 

A lonely little beggar with a wistful, homesick eye— 

And he wasn’t what you’d borrow, and he wasn’t what 
you’d steal, 

But I guessed his heart was breaking, so I whistled him 
to heel. 

They had stoned him through the city streets, and 
naught the city cared, 

But I was heading outward, and the roads are sweeter 
shared, 

So I took him for a comrade, and I whistled him away— 

On the road to Vagabondia, that lies across the day! 

Yellow dog he was; but bless you—he was just the chap 
for me! 

For I’d rather have an inch of dog than miles of pedi¬ 
gree. 

So we stole away together, on the road that has no end, 

With a new-coined day to fling away and all the stars 
to spend! 

Oh, to walk the road at morning, when the wind is blow¬ 
ing clean, 

And the yellow daisies fling their gold across a world of 
green— 


103 



104 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


For the wind it heals the heartache, and the sun it dries 
the scars, 

On the road to Vagabondia that lies beneath the stars. 

’Twas the wonder of our going cast a spell about our 

feet— 

And we walked because the world was young, because 
the way was sweet; 

And we slept in wild-rose meadows by the little wayside 
farms, 

Till the Dawn came up the highroad with the dead moon 
in her arms. 

Oh, the Dawn it w r ent before us through a shining lane 
of skies, 

And the Dream was at our heartstrings, and the Light 
w r as in our eyes, 

And we made no boast of glory and w r e made no boast 
of birth, 

On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the earth! 

MY DOG 

By William Griffith 

To-day hell chuckled at another lie, 

That gave no human being any pain, 

Except one temporary soul. Nor Cain 
Was more heart-heavy when he came to die. 

I branded him a cur that by-and-bye 

Would go the way of mongrels and be slain, 

By man nor God regretted; clear and plain 
Were the reproaches written in his eye. 


MY DOG AND 1 " 


105 


He bridled slightly ere he slunk away 
An hour ago and perished in a bog, 

Saving two children who had gone astray: 

Since when the sirens sounding through the fog 
Are Gabriel horns that thunder me to pray, 

Or to be damned for slandering my dog. 


“ IS THY SERVANT A DOG? ” 

By John B. Tabh 

So must he be who, in the crowded street, 

Where shameless Sin and flaunting Pleasure meet, 
Amid the noisome footprints finds the sweet 
Faint vestige of Thy feet. 


BISHOP DOANE’S TRIBUTE 
TO HIS DOG CLUNY 

I am quite sure he thinks that I am God— 
Since He is God on whom each one depends 
For life, and all things that His bounty sends— 
My dear old dog, most constant of all friends; 
Not quick to mind, but quicker far than I 
To Him whom God I know and own; his eye 
Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod; 

He is more patient underneath the rod 
Than I, when God His wise corrections sends. 
He looks love at me, deep as words e’er spake; 
And from me never crumb or sup will take 
But he wags thanks with his most vocal tail; 


106 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And when some crashing noise wakes all his fear 
He is content and quiet if I’m near, 

Secure that my protection will prevail; 

So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, he 
Tells me what I unto my God should be. 


MY DOG 

By John Kendrick Bangs 

I have no dog, but it must be 
Somewhere there’s one belongs to me— 

A little chap with wagging tail, 

And dark brown eyes that never quail, 
But look you through, and through, and 
through, 

[With love unspeakable, but true. 


Somewhere it must be, I opine, 

There is a little dog of mine 
With cold black nose that sniffs around 
In search of what things may be found 
In pocket, or some nook hard by 
Where I have hid them from his eye. 

Somewhere my doggie pulls and tugs 
The fringes of rebellious rugs, 

Or with the mischief of the pup 
Chews all my shoes and slippers up, 
And when he’s done it to the core, 
With eyes all eager pleads for more. 



" MY BOG AND I " 


107 


Somewhere upon his hinder legs 
My little doggie sits and begs, 

And in a wistful minor tone 
Pleads for the pleasures of the bone— 

I pray it be his owner’s whim 
To yield, and grant the same to him. 

Somewhere a little dog doth w r ait, 

It may be by some garden-gate. 

With eyes alert and tail attent— 

You know the kind of tail that’s meant— 
With stores of yelps of glad delight 
To bid me welcome home at night. 

Somewhere a little dog is seen, 

His nose two shaggy paws between, 

Flat on his stomach, one eye shut 
Held fast in dreamy slumber, but 
The other open, ready for 
His master coming through the door. 


FOR A LITTLE BROWN DOG 

Anonymous 

For a Little Brown Dog, who “ sees ” me down 
The hill to the car when I go to town, 

And carries my bag with an air of pride, 

As he trots sedately by my side, 

And waits to see that I’m on all right, 

And watches the car till it’s out of sight— 

I thank thee. 


108 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


For the way he tears down the hill to meet 
That car at night on his mad little feet— 

The car that will bring me, he knows, from town— 
And the joyous greeting, as I step down, 

A greeting the passengers hear, and see, 

Every one of them envying me, 

I thank thee. 

For the great true heart that is in his eyes, 
Tender, and patient, and brave, and wise, 

That makes him know when I’m sick, or sad, 

And, knowing, love me the more—dear lad— 
With a love unquestioning, high and fine— 

For all of that Little Brown Dog of mine, 

I thank thee. 


MY DOG AND I 
By Nor ah M. Holland 

My dog and I, the hills we know 
Where the first faint wild roses blow, 

We know the shadowy paths and cool 
That wind across the woodland dim, 

And where the w r ater beetles swim 
Upon the surface of the pool. 

My dog and I, our feet brush through 
Full oft the fragrant morning dew, 

Or when the summer sun is high 
We linger where the river flows, 
Chattering and chuckling as it goes, 

Two happy tramps, my dog and I. 




MY DOG AND I ’’ 


109 


Or, when the winter snows are deep, 

Into some fire-lit nook we creep 

And, while the north wind howls outside, 
See castles in the dancing blaze, 

Or, dozing, dream of summer days 

And woodland stretches, wild and wide. 

My dog and I are friends till death, 

And when the chill, dark angel’s breath 
Shall call him from me, still I know 
Somewhere within the shadowy land 
Waiting his master he will stand 
Until my summons comes to go. 

And, in that life so strange and new, 
We’ll tramp the fields of heaven through, 
Loiter the crystal river by, 

Together walk the hills of God 
As when the hills of earth we trod, 
Forever friends, my dog and I. 


DA PUP EEN DA SNOW 

By T. A . Daly 

Deed you evra see Joy 
Gona wild weeth delight, 
Jus’ so lika small boy 
W’en som’ brighta new toy 
Mak’s heem crazy excite’, 
You would know w’at I mean 
Eef you jus’ coulda seen— 


110 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Not so long time ago— 

How my leetla fat pup 

Ees first play een da snow. 

O! I scream an’ I roar 

An’ so shaka weeth laughtra, 
Dat my sides dey are sore 

For mos’ three-four days aftra. 
An’ how mooch I would try, 

I no speak weeth sooch skeell 
I could put een your eye 

W’at ees fresh een mine steell: 
How dat leetla pup romp 
All aroun’ da whole place, 
How he bark, how he jomp 
An’ fall down on hees face; 
How he fight, how he bite 
An’ ees tumble aroun’, 

Teel hees cover’ weeth white 
Lik a leetla fat clown; 

W’at su’prise fill hees eyes 
W’en he see da flakes sail, 

How he bark at da skies, 

How he chasa hees tail. 

O! I weesh I could show 
How ees looka, dat pup, 

How he puff an’ he blow 
W’en hees leecked by da snow 
An’ ees gotta geeve up. 

An’ I sposa, no doubt, 

You would say I am fibbin’ 


" MY DOG AND I " 


111 


W’en I say hees tongue’s out 
Lika yarda peenk ribbon— 

O! how mooch I would try, 

I no speak weeth sooch skeell 
I could put een your eye 

W’at’s so fresh een mine steell. 

But I weesh you had been 
Where you, too, coulda seen 
W’at delighta me so— 

How my leetla fat pup 

Ees first play een da snow! 

WE MEET AT MORN 
By Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley 

Still half in dream, upon the stair I hear 
A patter coming nearer and more near, 

And then upon my chamber door 
A gentle tapping, 

For dogs, though proud, are poor, 

And if a tail will do to give command 
Why use a hand? 

And after that a cry, half sneeze, half yapping, 
And next a scuffle on the passage floor, 

And then I know the creature lies to watch 
Until the noiseless maid will lift the latch, 

And like a spring 

That gains its power by being tightly stayed, 
The impatient thing 
Into the room 

Its whole glad heart doth fling, 

And where the gloom 


112 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Melts into light, and window blinds are rolled, 

I hear a bounce upon the bed, 

I feel a creeping toward me—a soft head, 

And on my face 
A tender nose, and cold— 

This is the way, you know, that dogs embrace—- 
And on my hand, like sun-warmed rose-leaves 
flung, 

The least faint flicker of the warmest tongue 
—And so my dog and I have met and sworn 
Fresh love and fealty for another morn. 


DREAMS 

By S. Virginia Sherwood 

I sing of a dog, the dearest dog 
That ever teased a shoe; 

His ears were straight, and his eyes were bright, 
And filled with an impish heathen light; 

I loved him, and he loved me true. 

We played together, Dreams and I, 

We ran at a leaping pace, 

We laughed and barked in the summer sun, 

And I slept on the hill when the play was done 
And Dreams had won the race. 

And after the breeze had cooled my cheek, 

And the summer sounds had sung 
And hummed and rustled a lullabv, 

I w r oke wdth a yawn and a happy sigh 
At the touch of a rough warm tongue. 


MY DOG AND I " 


113 


Ah, Dreams, you were ever so real to me, 
And I was glad and sad 
To look down into the eyes of you— 

So deep, so deep, for the size of you, 
Dear dog that I never had. 


LAUTH 

By Robert Burns 

He was a gash and faithfu’ tyke 
As ever lapt a sheugh or dyke. 

His honest, sawnsie, bawsint face 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black. 
His gawcie tail, wi’ upward curl, 
Hung ower his hurdies wi’ a swurl. 


THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND 
{From The Foray of Con O'Donnell ”) 
By Denis Florence McCarthy 

His stature tall, his body long, 

His back like night, his breast like snow, 
His fore leg pillar-like and strong, 

His hind leg like a bended bow; 

Rough curling hair, head long and thin, 
His ear a leaf so small and round; 

Not Bran, the favourite dog of Finn, 
Could rival John MacDonnell’s hound. 


114 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


As fly the shadows o’er the grass, 

He flies with step as light and sure, 

He hunts the wolf through Tostan pass, 
And starts the deer by Lisanoure. 
The music of the Sabbath bells, 

O Con! has not a sweeter sound 
Than when along the valley swells 

The cry of John MacDonnell’s hound. 


AT THE DOG SHOW 

To an Irish Wolf Hound 
By Christopher Morley 

Long and grey and gaunt he lies, 

A Lincoln among dogs; his eyes, 

Deep and clear of sight, appraise 
The meaningless and shuffling ways 
Of human folk that stop to stare. 

One witless woman seeing there 
How tired, how contemptuous 
He is of all the smell and fuss 
Asks him, “ Poor fellow, are you sick? ” 

Yea, sick, and weary to the quick 
Of heat and noise from dawn to dark. 

He will not even stoop to bark 
His protest, like the lesser bred. 

Would he might know, one gazer read 
The wistful longing in his face, 

The thirst for wind and open space 
And stretch of limbs to him begrudged. 


fr MY BOG AND I " 


115 


There came a little dapper, fat 
And bustling man, with cane and spat 
And pearl-grey vest and derby hat— 

Such were the judger and the judged! 

IN A SHOP WINDOW 

By Margaret E. Sangster 

He was such a little puppy, in a window of a shop, 

And his wistful eyes looked at me, and they begged me 
please to stop 

And buy him—for a window’s awful lonely, and folk 
pass 

And they make strange, ugly faces and rap sharply on 
the glass! 

He "was such a cunning beggar, and his paws were soft 
and wide, 

And he had a way of standing with his head held on 
one side, 

And his mouth just slightly open, and he always 
seemed to cry: 

“ Take me from this horrid window, ’cause I’m ready, 
most to die! ” 

He got tangled in my heart-strings, made me want to 
break away 

From the lease I signed so gladly—was it only yester- 
day? 

Said that dogs were not admitted. . . . He was not 

a dog, not yet! 

Only just a tiny puppy—and his nose was black and 

wet. 


116 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Did you ever speak unkindly of the friend you hold 
most dear? 

Did you ever call out crossly, so that bystanders could 
hear ? 

Did you ever pull a curtain to shut out the smiling 
day? 

That’s how I felt—but more so—as I turned and 
walked away! 


THE PUP 
By Edgar A. Guest 

He tore the curtains yesterday, 

And scratched the paper on the wall; 

Ma’s rubbers, too, have gone astray— 
She says she left them in the hall; 

He tugged the table cloth and broke 
A fancy saucer and a cup; 

Though Bud and I think it a joke 
Ma scolds a lot about the pup. 

The sofa pillows are a sight, 

The rugs are looking somewhat frayed, 

And there is ruin, left and right, 

That little Boston bull has made. 

He slept on Buddy’s counterpane— 

Ma found him there when she woke up. 

I think it needless to explain 
She scolds a lot about the pup. 

And yet he comes and licks her hand 
And sometimes climbs into her lap 

And there, Bud lets me understand, 

He very often takes his nap. 



" MY DOG AND I ” 


117 


And Bud and I have learned to know 
She wouldn’t give the rascal up: 
She’s really fond of him, although 
She scolds a lot about the pup. 


THE YELLOW DOG 
By Edgar A. Guest 

It was a little yellow dog, a wistful thing to see, 

A homely, skinny, battered pup, as dirty as could be; 

His ribs were showing through his hide, his coat was 
thick with mud, 

And yet the way he wagged his tail completely cap¬ 
tured Bud. 

He had been kicked from door to door and stoned upon 
his way, 

“ Begone! ” was all he’d ever heard, ’twas all that folks 
would say; 

And yet this miserable cur, forever doomed to roam, 

Struck up a comradeship with Bud, who proudly 
brought him home. 

I’ve never seen so poor a dog in all my stretch of 
years, 

The burrs were thick upon his tail and thick upon his 
ears; 

He’d had to fight his way through life and carried many 
a scar, 

But still Bud brought him home and cried, “ Say, can 
I keep him, Ma? ” 


118 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


I think the homeless terrier knows that age is harsh and 
stern, 

And from the shabby things of life in scorn is quick 
to turn; 

And when some scrubby yellow dog needs sympathy and 

joy, 

He’s certain of a friend in need, if he can find a boy. 


A BOY AND HIS DOG 

By Edgar A. Guest 

A boy and his dog make a glorious pair: 

No better friendship is found anywhere, 

For they talk and they walk and they run and they 
play, 

And they have their deep secrets for many a day; 
And that boy has a comrade who thinks and w r ho feels, 
Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels. 

He may go where he will and his dog will be there, 
May revel in mud and his dog will not care; 
Faithful he’ll stay for the slightest command 
And bark with delight at the touch of his hand; 

Oh, he owns a treasure which nobody steals, 

Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels. 

No other can lure him away from his side; 

He’s proof against riches and station and pride; 
Fine dress does not charm him, and flattery’s breath 
Is lost on the dog, for he’s faithful to death; 

He sees the great soul which the body conceals— 

Oh, it’s great to be young with a dog at your heels! 


MY DOG AND 1 


119 


A BOY AND A PUP 

By Arthur Guiterman 

The Boy wears a grin, 

A scratch on his chin, 

A wind-rumpled thatch, 

A visible patch, 

A cheek like a rose, 

A frecklesome nose. 

The Pup, though he may 
Be tawny as hay, 

Is blithe as a song; 

He gambols along 
And waves to each friend 
A wagglesome end. 

With whistle and bark 
They’re off for a lark; 
According to whim, 

A hunt or a swim, 

A tramp or a run 
Or any old fun. 

They don’t care a jot 
If school keeps or not, 
When anything’s up, 

The Boy and the Pup,— 
That duo of joy, 

A Pup and a Boy! 


120 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


LITTLE LOST PUP 

By Arthur Gutter man 

He was lost!—not a shade of doubt of that; 
For he never barked at a slinking cat, 

But stood in the square where the wind blew raw, 
With a drooping ear and a trembling paw 
And a mournful look in his pleading eye 
And a plaintive sniff at the passer-by 
That begged as plain as a tongue could sue, 

“ 0 Mister, please may I follow you?” 

A lorn, wee waif of a tawny brown 
Adrift in the roar of a heedless town— 

Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin 
Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in! 

Well, he won my heart (for I set great store 
On my own red Bute—who is here no more) 

So I whistled clear, and he trotted up, 

And who so glad as that small lost pup! 

Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed, 
And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread; 
Then, if things go wrong, as they sometimes do, 
And the world is cold and I’m feeling blue, 

He asserts his right to assuage my woes 
With a warm, red tongue and a nice, cold nose 
And a silky head on my arm or knee 
And a paw as soft as a paw can be. 

When we rove the woods for a league about 
He’s as full of pranks as a school let out; 



MY BOG AND I " 


121 


For he romps and frisks like a three-months’ colt, 
And he runs me down like a thunder-bolt. 

Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair 
Is a gay little pup with his tail in the air! 


THE DOG 

By George Sterling 

“The dog!” a friend exclaimed; and hearing 
there 

The swift contempt expressed, 

I wondered how an angel might compare 
The planet’s worst and best. 

Fidelity and love we value mostl 
Of all the hearts that live, 

What one fidelity like his can boast, 

Or such affection give? 


Love absolute, undoubting and untaught! 

How grudging seems our own, 

Compared to his, the changeless and unbought, 
From so scant nurture grown— 

The careless word, the cold hand’s hurried touch, 
The cast-off bone or crust! 

What squandering of all we value much 
Shall buy that perfect trust? 


122 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

O true, deep eyes! 0 heart that so delights 
To be the grateful slave! 

O poor, dumb lips that kiss the hand that smites, 
And mourn above its grave! 

If truer soul be known, proclaim who can! 

Nor would my tongue deny, 

If heavenly tongue should praise a blameless man, 
“ The dog! ” it well could cry. 


THE OUTCAST 
By Henry Herbert Knibbs 

With thrill of birds adown the dawn there came 
A golden arrow through the eastern pass, 

And in the gold were eyes of amber flame 
That burned upon me from the dewy grass. 

A wolf-dog, from some distant rancho strayed, 
Had made his bed beneath the pepper-tree; 

A great, gray ghost, sore-wounded, lone, afraid, 
He growled deep-throated as he glared at me. 

With kindly word I lured him from his bed 
To proffer food and drink and nearer drew, 

But in his eyes I saw affection dead; 

’Twas only hate and hunger that he knew. 

Poor brute, once brave and fearless as the best, 
Faithful to some lost master’s kindly hand, 

I grieved that I had so disturbed his rest, 

As trembling in the sun I saw him stand, 


" MY DOG AND I " 


123 


Fearful, and yet assured that in my voice 

A friend he knew. He quivered, turned, and then, 

As though he had made choice against his choice, 
Betook him, limping, to the road again. 

Slowly I followed, coaxing, calling, till 
The very act of fleeing lent him fear, 

Swiftly he climbed the long, low, eastern hill, 

Gazed back an instant; turned to disappear; 

And still I followed, sick at heart for him, 

Sad for the strong, brave brute he once had been, 

As in the morning sun my eyes grew dim 
To see him stretched again amid the green, 

Resting his battered head upon his paws, 

Licking his wounds, then glancing wildly round; 

Ah, pity that his fear was without cause; 

I turned and left him stretched upon the ground 

An outcast; but if human love for beast 

Has any worth, I prayed that night would send 

An easy death. Ah, could he know at least 

How much, how much I would have been his friend! 


i 


















125 






Please, friends, now have the grace 
To plead the cause of my ill-treated race! 

Pussy's Plea. Henby Coyle. 


126 




THE CAT 

IN HONOUR OF TAFFY TOPAZ 
By Christopher Morley 

Taffy, the topaz-coloured cat, 

Thinks now of this and now of that, 

But chiefly of his meals. 

Asparagus, and cream, and fish, 

Are objects of his Freudian wish; 

What you don’t give, he steals. 

His gallant heart is strongly stirred 
By clink of plate or flight of bird, 

He has a plumy tail; 

At night he treads on stealthy pad 
As merry as Sir Galahad 
A-seeking of the Grail. 

His amiable amber eyes 
Are very friendly, very wise; 

Like Buddha, grave and fat, 

He sits, regardless of applause, 

And thinking, as he kneads his paws, 
What fun to be a cat! 

THE GARDENER’S CAT 
By Bat rick R. Chalmers 

The gardener’s cat’s called Mignonette, 
She hates the cold, she hates the wet, 

She sits among the hothouse flowers 
And sleeps for hours and hours and hours. 

127 


128 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

She dreams she is a tiger fierce 
With great majestic claws that pierce, 

She sits by the hot-water pipes 
And dreams about a coat of stripes; 

And in her slumbers she will go 
And stalk the sullen buffalo, 

And when he roars across the brake 
She does not wink, she does not wake. 

It must be perfectly immense 
To dream with such magnificence, 

And pass the most inclement day 
In this indeed stupendous way. 

She dreams of India’s sunny clime, 

And only wakes at dinner-time, 

And even then she does not stir 
But waits till milk is brought to her. 

How nice to be the gardener’s cat, 

She troubles not for mouse or rat. 

But, when it’s coming down in streams, 

She sits among the flowers and dreams. 

The gardener’s cat would be the thing, 

Her dreams are so encouraging; 

She dreams that she’s a tiger, yet 

She’s just a cat called Mignonette! 

• ••••••••• 

The moral’s this, my little man— 

Sleep ’neath life’s hailstones when you can, 
And if you’re humble in estate, 

Dream splendidly, at any rate! 


THE CAT 


129 


TO MY CAT 

By Rosamund Marriott Watson 

Half loving-kindliness and half disdain, 

Thou comest to my call serenely suave, 

With humming speech and gracious gestures grave, 
In salutation courtly and urbane; 

Yet must I humble me thy grace to gain, 

For wiles may win thee though no arts enslave, 
And nowhere gladly thou abidest save 
Where naught disturbs the concord of thy reign. 
Sphinx of my quiet hearth! who deign’st to dwell 
Friend of my toil, companion of mine ease, 

Thine is the lore of Ra and Rameses; 

That men forget dost thou remember well, 

Beholden still in blinking reveries 

With sombre, sea-green gaze inscrutable. 


TO MY CAT 
By John G. Neihardt 

I watch you basking sleepy in the light, 

Majestic dreamer, humorously stern. 

Your little scratch-scarred nose betrays you quite, 
Yet how I long to know your thoughts, to learn 
What magic dreams beget themselves and burn 
Throughout your subtle nerves; for once I saw 
A cat’s form graven on an antique urn, 

And round their god Egyptians knelt in awe. 

Was once thy hiss a blight, was once thy purr a law? 


130 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Perhaps through sentient chains of linked ages 
Your soul has fled; jet like a haunting dream 
Can recollect the prayers of swarthy sages, 

Can hear the wash of Nilus’ mystic stream! 

It seems I see you basking in the gleam 
Of desert dawns. Majestical you gaze 
Into the eye of Ra, and dream a dream. 

Vast multitudes wait breathless in amaze 

For your oraculous purr to set their hearts ablaze! 

Perhaps you think “ How stupid grows the world,” 
And pine for godhood, till you come to be 
A broken spirit, like a war flag furled, 

Or drought-drained river sighing for the sea! 
What potent utterance do you waste on me 
When I am kind and stroke your glossy fur? 

What do you gaze on that I cannot see? 

Perhaps if men could know the things that were, 
Their petted faiths should quake and tremble at 
your purr! 


TO A CAT 

By Algernon Charles Swinburne 

I 

Stately, kindly, lordly friend, 
Condescend 

Here to sit by me, and turn 
Glorious eyes that smile and burn, 
Golden eyes, love’s lustrous meed, 
On the golden page I read. 


THE CAT 


131 


All your wondrous wealth of hair, 
Dark and fair, 

Silken-shaggy, soft and bright 
As the clouds and beams of night, 
Pays my reverent hand’s caress 
Back with friendlier gentleness. 

Dogs may fawn on all and some 
As they come; 

You, a friend of loftier mind, 

Answer friends alone in kind. 

Just } 7 our foot upon my hand 
Softly bids it understand. 

Morning round this silent sweet 
Garden-seat 

Sheds its wealth of gathering light, 
Thrills the gradual clouds with might, 
Changes woodland, orchard, heath, 
Lawn, and garden there beneath. 

Fair and dim they gleamed below: 
Now they glow 

Deep as even your sunbright eyes, 
Fair as even the wakening skies. 

Can it not or can it be 

Now that you give thanks to see? 

May not you rejoice as I, 

Seeing the sky 

Change to heaven revealed, and bid 
Earth reveal the heaven it hid 
All night long from stars and moon, 
Now the sun sets all in tune? 


132 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

What within you wakes w r ith day 
Who can say? 

All too little may we tell, 

Friends who like each other well, 

What might haply, if we might, 

Bid us read our lives aright. 

II 

Wild on woodland ways your sires 
Flashed like fires; 

Fair as flame and fierce and fleet 
As with wings on wingless feet 
Shone and sprang your mother, free, 
Bright and brave as wind or sea. 

Free and proud and glad as they, 

Here to-day 

Rests or roams their radiant child, 
Vanquished not, but reconciled, 

Free from curb of aught above 
Save the lovely curb of love. 

Love through dreams of souls divine 
Fain would shine 

Round a dawn whose light and song 
Then should right our mutual wrong—- 
Speak, and seal the love-lit law 
Sweet Assisi’s seer foresaw. 

Dreams were theirs; }^et haply may 
Dawn a day 

When such friends and fellows born, 

Seeing our earth as fair at morn, 

May for wiser love’s sake see 
More of heaven’s deep heart than we. 


THE CAT 


133 


PUSSY’S PLEA 

By Henry Coyle 

Now is the winter of my discontent : 

When summer comes, and all the world is gay 
With Nature’s smile, my mistress hies away 
To shore and woodlands green, while I am pent 
In backyards lone and empty. Weak and spent 
From lack of food, I prowl by night and day 
O’er fence and gate, and howl my doleful lay, 

But there are none to heed a cat’s lament. 

Sad is my lot! why was I born a cat? 

My lady’s ugly poodle takes his nap 
On some hotel veranda in her lap. 

Without a care he feasts and waxes fat 

The summer long. Please, friends, now have the 
grace 

To plead the cause of my ill-treated race! 


“ DOOMED ” 

Anonymous 

One day a statistician great 
Computed that the pussies ate 
Six million, thirteen birds a year, 

And called upon the clubs to hear 
His figures that were truly strange, 
And showed a quite stupendous range 
Of most laborious observation, 

Coupled with fine imagination. 


134 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


He told how pussies in the spring 

Made mince meat of the birds that sing. 
Descanted on this shame of shames. 

While many gatherings of dames 
With aviaries on their hats 
Wept at the perfidy of cats, 

And cried, “ Our birds destroyed? No, no, 
The cat is doomed and he must go.” 




135 

























































































And the Lord opened the mouth of the ass, and she 
said unto Balaam, What have I done unto thee, that 
thou hast smitten me these three times? 

Numbers 22 : 28 . 


136 


BURDEN-BEARERS 

THE DONKEY 
By G. K. Chesterton 

When fishes flew and forests walked 
And figs grew upon thorn, 

Some moment when the moon w T as blood 
Then surely I w r as born; 

With monstrous head and sickening cry 
And ears like errant wings, 

The devil’s walking parody 
On all four-footed things. 

The tattered outlaw of the earth, 

Of ancient crooked will; 

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, 

I keep my secret still. 

Fools! For I also had my hour; 

One far fierce hour and sweet: 

There was a shout about my ears, 

And palms before my feet. 

A FRIEND IN NEED 

By Jack Burroughs 

There is a public garden in Bordeaux, 

Where, carved in true, compelling lines of stone 
Rosa Bonheur, calm visaged and alone, 

Looks ever down upon the endless flow 

137 


138 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Of life in the less rugged flesh. A slow, 

Ungainly little donkey, as, wind-blown, 

A weed into a garden drifts, unknown, 

Stole in one day to feed where flowers grow. 

A keeper, shocked that this dull beast should browse 
Before the statue of the mighty dead, 

Rushed up, with blows the sinner to arouse. 

He stops, club poised above the shaggy head; 
Calm eyes seem watching him; his head he bows, 
And leads the dumb brute gently forth instead. 


I AM THE MULE 
By Will Chamberlain 

I am the mule, from ears which catch the gale 
To that unresting terminus, my tail; 

From downcast head and eye upon the soil, 
Where burdens chain me to the post of toil, 
To my one quick defense, the nimble heel, 

Which lashing tyrants sometimes justly feel. 

I climb the mountains where the eagles rule 
And tramp the dingy mine-path—I, the mule. 

I am the mule—the butt of countless jokes— 
But since time was my neck has known the yokes 
Of labor merciless, of crushing tasks which tell 
Of human cruelty which breeds a human hell. 
But as for me, without a sigh or tear, 

Heat, cold or storm, I get my hell right here— 
On city street, in miry, rustic pool; 

My prayer a bray for pity on the mule. 



BURDEN-BEARERS 


139 


I am the mule—where snows eternal cling, 

Or where tropics flaunt perpetual Spring; 

On trains which hide behind the mask of night, 
Where cotton bales are stacked and blackskins fight, 
Where bleak Alaska binds a pack of dust 
Upon the spine—the spoils of human lust— 

Or where for heartless Cubans I’m the tool 
To pull the ponderous cane-carts—I, the mule. 

I am the mule, and when men madly fly 
To belching guns and paint a war-red sky, 

And cities tumble and armadas sink, 

I drag the cannons while the cowards slink. 

And when are ended all the blood-wet days 
Who ever hears for me a note of praise— 

I who have triumphs fashioned in the school 
Of world events—your humble slave—the mule? 

THE BURTHEN OF THE ASS 

By John B. Tahb 

On Christmas night at Bethlehem 
When Shepherds came, I watched with them 
The Mother and the Child, 

Who, warned from Herod’s wrath to flee, 
Were into Egypt borne by me, 

Beyond the desert wild. 

And back again, at Herod’s death, 

I brought them home to Nazareth; 

And when unto His own, 

With loud Hosannas to His Name 
As King the Son of David came. 

My shoulders were His throne. 



140 POETRY’S PLEA FOB ANIMALS 


NICHOLAS NYE 
By Walter de la Mare 

Thistle and darnel and dock grew there, 
And a bush, in the corner, of may, 

On the orchard wall I used to sprawl, 

In the blazing heat of the day; 

Half asleep and half awake, 

While the birds went twittering by, 
And nobody there my lone to share 
But Nicholas Nye. 


Nicholas Nye was lean and grey, 

Lame of a leg and old, 

More than a score of donkey’s years 
He had seen since he was foaled; 

He munched the thistles, purple and spiked, 
Would sometimes stoop and sigh, 

And turn to his head, as if he said, 
“Poor Nicholas Nye!” 


Alone with his shadow he’d browse in the meadow, 
Lazily swinging his tail, 

At break of day he used to bray,— 

Not much too hearty and hale; 

But a wonderful gumption was under his skin, 
And a clear calm light in his eye, 

And once in a while he’d smile:— 

Would Nicholas Nye. 


B URDEN-BEARERS 


141 


Seemed to be smiling at me, he would, 

From his bush, in the corner, of may,— 

Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, 
Knobble-kneed, lonely and grey; 

And over the grass would seem to pass 
’Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, 
Something much better than words between me 
And Nicholas Nye. 

But dusk would come in the apple boughs, 

The green of the glow-worm shine, 

The birds in nest would crouch to rest, 

And home I’d trudge to mine; 

And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew, 
Asking not wherefore nor why, 

Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a po3t, 
Old Nicholas Nye. 






143 

































































































































I would not enter on my list of friends 
(Though graced with polish’d manners and fine 
sense, 

Yet wanting sensibility) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 

The Task. William Cowper. 


144 


SMALL CREATURES 


SNAKE 

By D. H. Lawrence 

A snake came to my water-trough 

On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, 

To drink there. 

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark 
carob tree 

I came down the steps with my pitcher 
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was 
at the trough before me. 

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the 
gloom 

And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, 
over the edge of the stone trough 
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, 

And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a 
small clearness, 

He sipped with his straight mouth, 

Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack 
long body, 

Silently. 

Some one was before me at my water-trough, 

And I, like a second-comer, waiting. 

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, 

And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, 

145 


146 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and 
mused a moment, 

And stooped and drank a little more, 

Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning 
bowels of the earth 

On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking. 

The voice of my education said to me 
He must be killed, 

For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the 
gold are venomous. 

And voices in me said, If you were a man 
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish 
him off. 

But must I confess how I liked him, 

How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to 
drink at my w 7 ater-trough 
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, 

Into the burning bowels of this earth? 

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? 

Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? 

Was it humility, to feel honoured? 

I felt so honoured. 

And yet those voices: 

If you were not afraid } r ou would kill him. 

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, 

But even so, honoured still more 
That he should seek my hospitality 
From out the dark door of the secret earth. 


SMALL CREATURES 


147 


He drank enough 

And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, 
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, 
so black, 

Seeming to lick his lips, 

And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, 
And slowly turned his head, 

And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, 
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round 
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face. 

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole, 

And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, 
and entered further, 

A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his with¬ 
drawing into that horrid black hole, 

Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly draw¬ 
ing himself after, 

Overcame me now his back was turned. 

I looked round, I put down my pitcher, 

I picked up a clumsy log 

And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter. 

I think it did not hit him, 

But suddenly that part of him that was left behind 
convulsed in undignified haste, 

Writhed like lightning, and was gone 
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the 
wall-front, 

At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with 
fascination. 


148 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And immediately I regretted it. 

I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! 

I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human 
education. 

And I thought of the albatross, 

And I wished he would come back, my snake. 

For he seemed to me again like a king, 

Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, 
Now due to be crowned again. 

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords 
Of life, 

And I have something to expiate: 

A pettiness. 


THE LIZARD 

By Edzvin Markham 

I sit among the hoary trees 
With Aristotle on my knees, 

And turn with serious hand the pages, 
Lost in the cobweb-hush of ages; 
When suddenly with no more sound 
Than any sunbeam on the ground, 
The little hermit of the place 
Is peering up into my face— 

The slim gray hermit of the rocks, 
With bright inquisitive, quick eyes, 
His life a round of harks and shocks, 
A little ripple of surprise. 



SMALL CREATURES 


149 


Now lifted up, intense and still, 
Sprung from the silence of the hill 
He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten, 
And his whole body seems to listen! 
My pages give a little start, 

And he is gone! to be a part 
Of the old cedar’s crumpled bark, 

A mottled scar, a weather-mark! 

How halt am I, how mean of birth, 
Beside this darting pulse of earth! 

I only have the wit to look 
Into a big presumptuous book, 

To find some sage’s rigid plan 
To tell me how to be a man. 
Tradition lays its dead hand cold 
Upon our youth—and we are old. 
But this wise hermit, this gray friar, 
He has no law r but heart’s desire. 

He somehow touches higher truth, 
The circle of eternal youth. 

TO A TREE-FROG 

By Amelie Rives 

Little enchanted leaf, 

Apart from the tree yet of it, 
The magic of water made you 
That so you love it; 

The brook gave you a voice, 

Dew drops your eyes, 

Your little watery soul 
From a mist did rise; 


150 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And so you’re ever trilling, 

While rain is rilling, 

For sheer delight 
In its wetness bright,— 

And so you’re ever crooning 
With muted glee 

While the wind his harp is tuning 
To a higher key, 

For well you know 
When he doth so, 

Full soon he’ll strike the chord of power 
That brings a shower, 

And while the rain is rilling 
Again you will be trilling;— 

“ Tree! Tree! Tree! 

Dr-rink! Dr-rink! 

Creek! Creek! Creek! 

Br-rim a-br-rink! 

Dr-r-r-ops in millions , 

Billions , tr-r-rillions! ” 

It is ecstasy to be 
A little green frog on a tree 
When rain is rilling, 

When summer showers are shrilling. 

THE TOAD 
By Arthur C . Benson 

Old fellow-loiterer, whither wouldst thou go? 

The lonely eve is ours. 

When tides of richer fragrance ooze and flow 
From heavy-lidded flowers. 


SMALL CREATURES 


151 


With solemn hampered pace proceeding by 
The dewy garden-bed, 

Like some old priest in antique finery, 

Stiff cope and jewelled head; 

Thy sanctuary lamps are lit at dusk, 

Where leafy aisles are dim; 

The bat’s shrill piccolo, the swinging musk 
Blend with the beetle’s hymn. 

Aye something paramount and priestly too, 
Some cynic mystery, 

Lurks in the dull skin with its dismal hue, 

The bright ascetic eye; 

Thou seem’st the heir of centuries, hatched out 
With aeons on thy track; 

The dust of ages compasses about 

Thy lean and shrivelled back. 

Thy heaving throat, thy sick repulsive glance 
Still awes thy foes around; 

The eager hound starts back and looks askance, 
And whining paws the ground. 

Yet thou hast forfeited thy ancient ban, 

Thy mystical control; 

We know thee now to be the friend of man, 

A simple homely soul; 

And when we deemed thee curiously wise, 

Still chewing venomed paste, 

Thou didst but crush the limbs of juicy flies 
With calm and critic taste. 


152 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

By the grey stone half sunk in mossy mold, 

Beside the stiff boxhedge, 

Thou slumberest, when the dawn with fingers cold 
Plucks at the low cloud’s edge. 

O royal life! in some cool cave all day, 

Dreaming old dreams, to lie, 

Or peering up to see the larkspur sway 
Above thee in the sky; 

Or wandering when the sunset airs are cool 
Beside the elm-tree’s foot, 

To splash and sink in some sequestered pool, 

Amid the cresses’ root. 

Abhorred, despised, the sad wind o’er thee sings; 

Thou hast no friend to fear, 

Yet fashioned in the secret mint of things 
And bidden to be here. 

Man dreams of loveliness, and bids it be; 

To truth his eye is dim. 

Thou wert, because the spirit dreamed of thee, 
And thou art born of him. 


THE WOODMOUSE 

By Mary Howitt 

Do you know the little woodmouse, 
That pretty little thing, 

That sits among the forest leaves, 
Or by the forest spring? 


SMALL CREATURES 153 

Its fur is red like the chestnut, 

And it is small and slim, 

It leads a life most innocent, 

Within the forest dim. 

It makes a bed of the soft, dry moss, 

In a hole that’s deep and strong, 

And there it sleeps secure and warm, 

The dreary winter long; 

And though it keeps no calendar, 

It knows when flowers are springing, 

And it waketh to its summer life, 

When nightingales are singing. 


TO A FIELD MOUSE 
By Robert Burns 

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, 
O what a panic’s in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start away sae hasty, 
Wi’ bickering brattle! 

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee 
Wi’ murd’ring pattle! 


I’m truly sorry man’s dominion 
Has broken Nature’s social union, 

And justifies that ill opinion 
Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 
And fellow T -mortal! 


154 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 

A daimen icker in a thrave 
’s a sma’ request: 

I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, 

And never miss’t! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 

Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’: 

And naething, now, to big a new ane, 

0’ foggage green! 

And bleak December’s winds ensuin’, 

Baith snell and keen! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 

And weary winter coming fast; 

And cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro’ thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble 

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 

Now thou’s turn’d out for a’ thy trouble 
But house or hald, 

To thole the winter’s sleety dribble 
And cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou are no thy lane 

In proving foresight may be vain: 

The best laid schemes o’ mice and men 
Gang aft a-gley, 

And lea’e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 


SMALL CREATURES 


155 


Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me! 
The present only toucheth thee: 

But, och! I backward cast my e’e 
On prospects drear! 

And forward, tho’ I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 


TO A WOOD-RAT 

Whose home was destroyed hy a class in Zoology 

By James Leo Duff 

Och, it pulls at me heart to see you afflicted, 

You with th’ great, sobbin’ eyes of ye there; 
Could the Irish stand by to see one evicted 
An’ say, “ I don’t care? ” 

You that have labored your home to be earnin’, 
You’ve toiled in th’ buildin’ be day an’ be night. 
Now they’ve pulled it apart for th’ sake of their 
learnin’— 

God send thim light! 


REMORSE ON KILLING A SQUIRREL IN 

A GARDEN 

By William Bay 

Rash was the hand, and foul the deed, 
That gave thee, thus, to death a prey; 
Oh! I could weep to see thee bleed 
And pant thy gasping life away. 


156 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

What hast thou done to merit death, 

But gather for a future day, 

Just to prolong thy little breath? 

And yet I took thy life away. 

For thou no wealth or fame didst crave, 

No costly food, or clothing gay; 

But only sought thy life to save; 

And yet I took thy life away. 

Poor little thing; how hard it strove 
To shun the blow, as hid it lay: 

But all could not my pity move, 

I took its trembling life away. 

Oh! how inhospitably vile! 

It came, a stranger, here to stay; 

To eat and drink, and live awhile, 

But I have taken its life away. 

Too late, I now repent the blow, 

’Tis stiff, alas! and cold as clay! 

Its life to me it did not owe, 

And yet I took its life away. 

The power which gave all nature law, 
Whose summons we must all obey, 

Gave thee thy vital breath to draw, 

And yet I took that breath away. 

Whether thou hast a mate to moan, 

Or offspring dear, ah! who can say? 

No harm to me thou e’er hast done, 

And yet I took thy life away. 


SMALL CREATURES 


157 


What millions do mankind destroy, 

Of their own race, for power or pay! 
Some would have kept thee for a toy, 
But I have toyed thy life away. 


A NEIGHBOUR 

By Norman Gale 

The Lord Almighty chose to give 
This hedgehog room enough to live 
Upon the world where you and I 
Look up to praise Him in the sky. 

The hedgehog clearly understands 
The weakness of the little hands 
That seem, when he considers all 
His work and dangers, very small. 

He steadily and strongly grows 
A bunch of thorns, to prick the nose 
Of any dog that dares attack 
The fortress on his rounded back. 

If threatened, he applies the rule 
They taught him at his Infant School: 
He makes a ball of back and chest, 

4 

And keeps on hoping for the best. 

The Lord Almighty chose to give 
The hedgehog room enough to live 
Upon the world. I want to add 
That I, for one, am very glad. 


































For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle 
upon a thousand hills. 


Psalm 50j 10. 


160 


“ UPON A THOUSAND HILLS ” 

A COW AT SULLINGTON 
By Charles Dalmon 


She leaves the puddle where she drinks, 
And comes toward the roadway bar 
And looks into our eyes, and thinks 
What curious animals we are! 


THE OLD BRINDLE COW 

By Thomas O'Hag an 

Of all old memories that cluster round my heart, 
With their root in my boyhood days, 

The quaintest is linked to the old brindle cow 
With sly and mysterious ways. 

She’d linger round the lot near the old potato patch, 
A sentinel by night and by day, 

Watching for the hour when all eyes were asleep, 

To start on her predatory way. 

The old brush fence she would scorn in her course, 
With turnips and cabbage just beyond, 

And corn that was blooming through the halo of the 
night— 

What a banquet so choice and so fond! 

But when the stars of morn were paling in the sky 
The old brindle cow would take the cue, 

And dressing up her line she’d retreat beyond the fence. 
For the old cow knew just what to do. 

161 


162 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


What breed did you say? Why the very best blood 
That could flow in a democratic cow; 

No herd-book could tell of the glory in her horns 
Or whence came her pedigree or how: 

She was Jersey in her milk and Durham in her build, 
And Ayrshire when she happened in a row, 

But when it came to storming the old 44 slash ” fence 
She was simply the old brindle cow. 

It seems but a day since I drove her to the gate 
To yield up her rich and creamy prize; 

For her theft at midnight hour she would yield a double 
dower, 

With peace of conscience lurking in her eyes. 

But she’s gone—disappeared with the ripened years of 
time, 

Whose memories my heart enthrall e’en now; 

And I never hear a bell tinkling through the forest dell 
But I think of that old brindle cow. 


THE KERRY COW 

By W. M. Letts 

It’s in Connacht in Munster that yourself might travel 
wide, 

And be asking all the herds you’d meet along the 
country-side, 

But you’d never meet a one could show the likes of her 
till now, 

Where she’s grazing in a Leinster field—my little Kerry 
cow. 



" UPON A THOUSAND HILLS " 163 

If herself went to the cattle fairs she’d put all cows to 
shame, 

For the finest poets of the land would meet to sing her 
fame; 

And the young girls would be asking leave to stroke her 
satin coat, 

They’d be praising and caressing her, and calling her 
a dote. 

If the King of Spain gets news of her, he’ll fill his purse 
with gold, 

And set sail to ask the English King where she is lo 
be sold. 

But the King of Spain may come to me, a crown upon 
his brow. 

It is he may keep his golden purse—and I my Kerry 
cow. 

The priest maybe will tell her fame to the Holy Pope 
of Rome, 

And the Cardinals’ College send for her to leave her 
Irish home; 

But it’s heart-broke she would be itself to cross the 
Irish sea, 

’Twould be best they’d send a blessing to my Kerry 
cow and me. 

When the Ulster men hear tell of her, thev’ll come with 

* •/ 

swords an’ pikes, 

For it’s civil war there’ll be no less if they should see 
her likes, 

And 3 r ou’ll read it on the paper of the bloody fight 
there’s been, 

An’ the Orangemen they’re burying in fields of Leinster 
green. 



164 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


There are red cows that’s contrary, and there’s white 
cows quare and wild, 

But my Kerry cow is biddable, an’ gentle as a child. 

You may rare up kings and heroes on the lovely milk 
she yields, 

For she’s fit to foster generals to fight our battlefields. 

In the histories they’ll be making they’ve a right to put 
her name 

With the horse of Troy and Oisin’s hounds and other 
beasts of fame. 

And the painters will be painting her beneath the haw¬ 
thorn bough 

Where she’s grazing on the good green grass—my little 
Kerry cow. 


CATTLE BEFORE THE STORM 

By Glenn Ward Dresbach 

About the water hole, half dried, 
The restless cattle weary eyed, 
Watching dark omens in the skies, 
Stir up the choking dust that settles 
Upon them with the flies 
That sting like nettles. 


No shelter lifts where they ma}' go. 
Far hazy hills in ragged row T 
Are out where trails on distance break; 
And cattle group and mill together 
With rumps now hunched to take 
The lashing weather. 



" UPON A THOUSAND HILLS ” 165 


Sparse pasture cannot lure them back 
Along the plain while lightnings crack 
Long whips of flame the clouds writhe from. 
Though something tells them to beware it, 
The cattle tense and dumb 
Must stay and bear it. 


DEEDIN’ THE STOCK 
By Holman F. Day 

Hear the chorus in that tie-up, runch, gerrunch, and 
runch and runch! 

■—There’s a row of honest critters! Does me good to 
hear ’em munch. 

When the barn is gettin’ dusky and the sun’s behind the 
drifts, 

—Touchin’ last the gable winder where the dancin’ 
hay-dust sifts, 

When the coaxin’ from the tie-up kind o’ hints it’s five 
o’clock— 

Wal, I’ve got a job that suits me—that’s the chore of 
feedin’ stock. 

We’ve got patches down to our house—honest patches, 
though, and neat, 

But we’d rather have the patches than to skinch on 
what we eat. 

Lots of work, and grub to back ye—that’s a mighty 
wholesome creed. 

—Critters fust, s’r, that’s my motto—give the critters 
all they need. 






166 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And the way we do at our house, marm and me take 
what is left, 

And—wal,—we ain’t goin’ hungry, as you’ll notice by 
our heft. 

Drat the man that’s calculatin’ when he measures out 
his hay, 

Groanin’ ev’ry time he pitches ary forkful out the bay; 

Drat the man who feeds out ruff-scuff, wood and wire 
from the swale, 

’Cause he wants to press his herds’-grass, send his clover 
off for sale. 

Down to our house we wear patches, but it ain’t no¬ 
body’s biz 

Jest as long as them ’ere critters git the best of hay 
there is. 

When the cobwebs on the rafters drip with winter’s 
early dusk 

And the rows of critters’ noses, damp with breath as 
sweet as musk, 

Toss and tease me from the tie-up—ain’t a job that 
suits me more 

Than the feedin’ of the cattle—that’s the reg’lar wind¬ 
up chore. 

When I grain ’em or I meal ’em—wal, there’s plenty in 
the bin, 

And I give ’em Quaker measure ev’ry time I dip down 
in; 

And the hay, wal, now I’ve cut it, and I own it and 
it’s mine 

And I jab that blamed old fork in, till you’d think I’d 
bust a tine. 



" UPON A THOUSAND HILLS " 167 


I ain’t doin’ it for praises—no one sees me but the pup, 

—And I get his apperbation, ’cause he pounds his tail, 
rup, rup! 

No, I do it ’cause I want to; ’cause I couldn’t sleep a 
wink, 

If I thought them poor dumb critters lacked for fodder 
or for drink. 

And to have the scufflin’ barnful give a jolly little blat 

When you open up o’ mornin’s, ah, there’s comfort, 
friend, in that! 

And you’ve prob’ly sometimes noticed, when his cattle 
hate a man, 

That it’s pretty sure his neighbors size him up on that 
same plan. 


But I’m solid in my tie-up; when I’ve finished up that 
chore, 

I enjoy it standin’ list’nin’ for a minit at the door. 

And the rustle of the fodder and the nuzzlin’ in the 
meal 

And the runchin’s of their feedin’ make this humble 
feller feel 

That there ain’t no greater comfort than this ’ere—to 
understand 

That a dozen faithful critters owe their comfort to my 
hand. 


Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its overhang¬ 
ing mows, 

With its warm and battened tie-up, full of well-fed sheep 
and cows. 



168 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar and drive 
the pin 

And, with Jeff a-waggin’ after, lug the foamin’ milk- 
pails in. 

That’s the style of things to our house—marm and me 
we don’t pull up 

Until ev’ry critter’s eatin’, from the cattle to the pup. 

Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum preserves 
taste good, 

For we’re feelin’, me and mother, that we’re actin’ 
’bout’s we should. 

Like as can be, after supper mother sews another patch 

And she says the duds look trampy, ’cause she ain’t got 
goods to match. 

Fust of all, though, comes the mealbins and the hay¬ 
mows ; after those 

If there’s any extry dollars, wal, we’ll see about new 
clothes. 

But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the rug acrost 
the door; 

—Warmth and food and peace and comfort—let’s not 
pester God for more. 


THE STOCK IN THE TIE-UP 

By Holman F. Day 

I’m workin’ this week in the wood-lot; a hearty old job, 
you can bet; 

I finish my chores with a larntern, and marm has the 
table all set 



UPON A THOUSAND HILLS " 169 


By the time I get in with the milkin’; and after I wash 
at the sink, 

And marm sets a saucer o’ strainin’s for the cat and 
the kittens to drink, 

Your uncle is ready for supper, with an appetite whet 
to an edge 

That’ll cut like a bush-scythe in swale-grass, and 
couldn’t be dulled on a ledge. 

And marm, she slats open the oven, and pulls out a 
heapin’-full tin 

Of the rippin’est cream-tartar biskit a man ever pushed 
at his chin. 

We pile some more wood on the fire, and open the 
damper full blare, 

And pull up and pitch into supper—and comfort—and 
taste good—wal, there! 

And the wind swooshes over the chimbly, and scrapes at 
the shingles cross-grain, 

But good double winders and bankin’ are mighty good 
friends here in Maine. 

I look ’crost the table to mother, and marm she looks 
over at me, 

And passes another hot biskit and says, “ Won’t ye 
have some more tea? ” 

And while I am stirrin’ the sugar, I relish the sound of 
the storm. 

For, thank the good Lord, we are cosy, and the stock 
in the tie-up is warm. 

I tell ye, the song o’ the fire and the chirruping hiss o’ 
the tea, 

The roar of the wind in the chimbly, they sound dread¬ 
ful cheerful to me. 


170 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

But they’d harrer me, plague me, and fret me, unless as 
I set here I knew 

That the critters are munchin’ their fodder and bedded 
and comf’table, too. 

These biskits are light as a feather, but, boy, they’d be 
heavier’n lead 

If I thought that my hosses was shiv’rin’, if I though! 
that my cattle warn’t fed. 

There’s men in the neighborhood ’round me who pray 
som’w’at louder than me, 

They wear better clothes, sir, on Sunday—chip in for 
the heathen Chinee, 

But the cracks in the sides o’ their tie-ups are wide as 
the door o’ their pew, 

And the winter comes in there a-howlin’, with the sleet 
and the snow peltin’ through. 

Step in there, sir, ar} r a mornin’ and look at their 
critters! ’Twould seem 

As if they were bilers or engines, and all o’ them chock- 
full o’ steam. 

I’ve got an old-fashioned religion that calkalates Sun¬ 
days for rest, 

But if there warn’t time, sir, on week days to batten a 
tie-up, I’m blest 

I’d use up a Sunday or such-like, and let the durned 
heathen folks go 

While I fastened some boards on the lintel to keep out 
the frost and the snow\ 

I’d stand all the frowns of the parson before I’d have 
courage to face 

The dumb holler eyes o’ the critters hooked up in a 
frosty old place. 


“ UPON A THOUSAND HILLS ” 171 


And I’ll bet ye that in the Hereafter the men who have 
stayed on their knees 

And let some poor, fuzzy old cattle stand out in a tie-up 
and freeze, 

Will find that the heat o’ the Hot Place is keyed to an 
extra degree 

For the men who forgot to consider that critters have 
feelin’s same’s we. 

I dasn’t go thinkin’ o’ tie-ups where winter goes whistlin’ 
through. 

Where cattle are humped at their stanchions with 
scarcely the gumption to moo. 

But I’m glad for the sake of Hereafter that mine ain’t 
the sin and the guilt, 

And I tell you I relish my feelin’s when I pull up the 
big patchwork quilt. 

I can laugh at the pelt o’ the snowflakes, and grin at 
the slat o’ the storm, 

And thank the good Lord I can sleep now, the stock in 
the tie-up is warm. 


I’VE GOT THEM CALVES TO VEAL 
By Holman F. Day 

It’s a jolly sort of season, is the spring—is the spring, 
And there isn’t any reason for not feeling like a king. 
The sun has got flirtatious and he kisses Mistress Maine, 
And she pouts her lips, a-saying, “ Mister, can’t you 
come again P ” 

The hens are all a-laying, the potatoes sprouting well, 


172 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And fodder spent so nicely that I’ll have some hay to 
sell. 

But when I get to feeling just as well as I can feel, 

All to once it comes across me that I’ve got them calves 
to veal. 

Oh! I can’t go in the stanchion, look them mothers in 
the eye, 

For I’m meditatin’ murder; planning how their calves 
must die. 

Every time them little shavers grab a teat, it wrings 
my heart, 

—Hate to see ’em all so happy, for them cows and 
calves must part. 

That’s the reason I’m so mournful; that’s the reason 
in the spring 

I go feeling just like Nero or some other wicked thing, 

For I have to slash and slaughter; have to set an iron 
heel 

On the feelings of them mothers; I have got them calves 
to veal. 

Spring is happy for the poet and the lover and the girl, 

But the farmer has to do things that will make his 
harslet curl. 

And the thing that hits me hardest is to stand the lone¬ 
some moos 

Of that stanchion full of critters when they find they’re 
going to lose 

Little Spark-face, Little Brindle—when the time has 
come to part, 

And the calves go off a-blatting in a butcher’s rattling 
cart. 



“ UPON A THOUSAND HILLS ” 173 


Though the cash the butcher pays me sort of smooths 
things up and salves 

All the really rawest feeling when I sell them little 
calves, 

Still I’m mournful in the springtime; knocks me off my 
even keel, 

Seeing suffering around me when I have them calves to 

veal. 


THE LITTLE RED BULLOCK 

By Herbert Tremaine 

“ Colleen, under the thorn-tree 

Wit’ the sunbeams filtering through 

—Is it dreaming you are, sweet colleen, 

An’ all the milking to do? ” 

• . . “ I’m thinking of my little red bullock 
That they’re killing at Ballinasloe. 

“ ’Twas myself that watched by his mother 
All night in the old tarred shed; 

An’ as soon as her pain was over 
The creature put down her head, 

An’ she licked him as clean as a sixpence 
—An’ she no better than dead! 

“ That’s his field on the edge of the bogland 
Where there’s bushes of wild sw T eet-gale. . . . 

Do you see where the wall is broken? . . . 

I usety come wit’ my pail. . . . 

I think I can feel him sucking 

An’ see him whisking his tail. . . . 


174 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


“ Agh, I’d reared him so big an’ so lovely 
In the sun an’ the green an’ the blue! 

. . . I’m a fool to be sitting here crying, 

An’ all the milking to do. 

. . . But it seemed like killing my baby 

When they tuk him to Ballinasloe.” 


THE CATTLE TRAIN 

By Charlotte Perkins Gilman 

Below my window goes the cattle train, 

And stands for hours along the river park, 

Fear, Cold, Exhaustion, Hunger, Thirst, and Pain; 
Dumb brutes we call them—Hark! 

The bleat of frightened mother-calling young, 
Deep-throated agony, shrill frantic cries, 

Hoarse murmur of the thirst-distended tongue, 

Up to my window rise. 

Bleak lies the shore to northern wind and sleet, 

In open-slatted cars they stand and freeze; 

Beside the broad blue river in the heat 
All waterless go these. 

Hot, fevered, frightened, trampled, bruised, and 
torn; 

Frozen to death before the ax descends; 

We kill these weary creatures, sore and worn, 

And eat them—with our friends. 


" UPON A THOUSAND HILLS " 175 


SHEEP 

By William H. Davies 

When I was once in Baltimore 
A man came up to me and cried, 

“ Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep, 
And we will sail on Tuesday’s tide. 


“ If you will sail with me, young man, 

I’ll pay you fifty shillings down; 

These eighteen hundred sheep I take 
From Baltimore to Glasgow town.” 

He paid me fifty shillings down, 

I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep; 

We soon had cleared the harbour’s mouth, 

We soon were in the salt sea deep. 

The first night we were out at sea 
Those sheep were quiet in their mind; 

The second night they cried with fear— 

They smelt no pastures in the wind. 

They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, 
They cried so loud I could not sleep: 

For fifty thousand shillings down 
I would not sail again with sheep. 


176 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A CHILD’S PET 

By William H. Davies 

When I sailed out of Baltimore, 

With twice a thousand head of sheep, 

They would not eat, they would not drink, 

But bleated o’er the deep. 

Inside the pens w r e crawled each day, 

To sort the living from the dead; 

And when we reached the Mersey’s mouth, 

Had lost five hundred head. 

Yet every night and day one sheep, 

That had no fear of man or sea, 

Stuck through the bars its pleading face, 

And it w r as stroked by me. 

And to the sheep-men standing near, 

“ You see,” I said, “ this one tame sheep? 

It seems a child has lost her pet, 

And cried herself to sleep.” 

So every time we passed it by, 

Sailing to England’s slaughter-house, 

Eight ragged sheep-men—tramps and thieves— 
Would stroke that sheep’s black nose. 


“ UPON A THOUSAND HILLS " 177 


THE CALF 
By Eleanor Baldwin 

In a pasture toward the sun, O my brothers, 

I have seen him leap and run with the others. 

I have watched him as he fed, 

Nuzzling with his curly head, 

And his baby coat was red 
Like his mother’s. 

They have penned him in the train with the others, 
And that distant low of pain is his mother’s. 

For they seized him as he nursed— 

Hot his hunger and his thirst 
In this groaning place accursed, 

O my brothers. 

He is goaded from the car, and he smothers 
Where the wheels and pulleys are, O my brothers! 
For his fear has found its proof: 

By his hind and cloven hoof 
He is swung twixt floor and roof 
With the others. 

Now the knife has crossed his throat—like the 
others. 

Redder glows his little coat than his mother’s. 

(Far the pastures toward the south!) 

Bitter drink for bitter drouth 
Is the dark blood in his mouth, 

O my brothers! 














179 











































And the plain ox, 

That harmless, honest, guileless animal, 

In what has he offended? he whose toil, 

Patient and ever ready, clothes the land 
With all the pomp of harvest. 

The Seasons. James Thomson. 


180 


OXEN 


OXEN 

By Malilon Leonard Fisher 

Weary, they plod the ploughlands of the World. 
Wherever turf is turned their hooves have pressed. 
Gladly the great Earth-mother gives her breast 
For them to trample—her pure bosom, pearled 
With dews of innumerable mornings. Where were 
furled 

Slit pitiful flags, their passing stills dismay: 
Yoke-ridden, mute, Peace binds on them her bay.— 
For this the goad, the lash, the curse age-hurled! 
Patient (Ah, theirs the patient eyes of Christ!), 

They tread the centuries. Behind them flows 
The furrowed glebe, and hath since Egypt rose, 
Starlike, above the Nile. They bide the tryst 
Man hath appointed; till he dig their graves, 
Serve him, complaintless, who hath made them 
slaves. 


THE OX 
From the “ Poesie .” 

I love thee, pious ox; a gentle feeling 

Of vigor and of peace thou giv’st my heart. 

How solemn, like a monument, thou art! 

Over wide fertile fields thy calm gaze stealing, 
Unto the yoke with grave contentment kneeling, 

To man’s quick work thou dost thy strength impart. 
He shouts and goads, and answering thy smart, 

181 



182 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Thou turn’st on him thy patient eyes appealing. 
From thy broad nostrils, black and wet, arise 

Thy breath’s soft fumes; and on the still air swells, 
Like happy hymn, thy lowing’s mellow strain. 

In the grave sweetness of thy tranquil ej'es 
Of emerald, broad and still reflected dwells 
All the divine green silence of the plain. 

From the Italian of Giosue Carducci. 
Translation of Frank Sewall. 

A YOKE OF STEERS 
By DuBose Heyward 

A heave of mighty shoulders to the 3 r oke, 

Square patient heads, and flaring sweep of horn ; 
The darkness swirling down beneath their feet 
Where sleeping valleys stir and feel the dawn; 
Uncouth and primal, on and up they sway, 
Taking the summit in a drench of day. 

The night-winds volley upward bitter-sweet, 

And the dew shatters to a rainbow spray 
Under the slow-moving cloven feet. 

There is a power here that grips the mind— 

A force repressed and inarticulate, 

Slow as the swing of centuries, as blind 
As Destiny, and as deliberate. 

They will arrive in their appointed hour 
Unhurried by the goad of lesser wills, 

Bearing vast burdens on. 

They are the great 
Unconquerable spirit of these hills. 


OXEN 


183 


CROSSING THE PLAINS 

By Joaquin Miller 

What great yoked brutes with briskets low; 
With wrinkled necks like buffalo, 

With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, 

That turned so slow and sad to you, 

That shone like love’s eyes soft with tears, 

That seemed to plead, and make replies, 

The while they bowed their necks and drew 
The creaking load; and looked at you. 

Their sable briskets swept the ground, 

Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. 

Two sullen bullocks led the line, 

Their great eyes shining bright like wine; 

Two sullen captive kings were they, 

That had in time held herds at bay, 

And even now they crushed the sod 
With stolid sense of majesty, 

And stately stepped and stately trod, 

As if ’twere something still to be 
Kings even in captivity. 

Permission to use this poem granted by Harr Wagner 
Publishing Company, San Francisco, California, publishers of 
Joaquin Miller’s Complete Poems. 








185 
















































O’er folded blooms 
On swirls of mush, 

The beetle booms adown the glooms 
And bumps along the dusk. 

The Beetle. James Whitcomb Riley. 


The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine! 

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. 

Essay on Man , Epistle I. Alexander Pope. 


His labor is a chant, 

His idleness a tune; 

Oh, for a bee’s experience 
Of clovers and of noon! 

The Bee. Emily Dickinson. 


What more felicitie can fall to creature 
Than to enjoy delight with liber tie, 

And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, 

To raine in th’ aire from earth to highest skie, 
To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature. 

Muiopotmos: or, The Fate of the Butterflic. 

Edmund Spenser. 


Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and 
be wise. 


Proverbs 6: 6. 


186 






THE LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS ’ 


ALL THINGS WAIT UPON THEE 
By Christina G. Rossetti 

Innocent eyes not ours 
And made to look on flowers, 

Eyes of small birds, and insects small; 

Morn after summer morn 
The sweet rose on her thorn 
Opens her bosom to them all. 

The last and least of things, 

That soar on quivering wings, 

Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight 
Have just as clear a right 
To their appointed portion of delight 
As queens or kings. 


THE BEE IN CHURCH 

By Alfred Noyes 

The nestling church at Ovingdean 
Was fragrant as a hive in May; 

And there was nobody within 
To preach, or praise, or pray. 

The sunlight slanted through the door, 

And through the panes of painted glass, 
When I stole in, alone, once more 
To feel the ages pass. 

187 


188 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Then, through the dim grey hush there droned 
An echoing plain-song on the air, 

As if some ghostly priest intoned 
An old Gregorian there. 

Saint Chrysostom could never lend 
More honey to the heavenly Spring 

Than seemed to murmur and ascend 
On that invisible wing. 

So small he was, I scarce could see 
My girdled brown hierophant; 

But only a Franciscan bee 
In such a bass could chant. 

His golden Latin rolled and boomed. 

It swayed the altar flowers anew, 

Till all that hive of worship bloomed 
With dreams of sun and dew. 

Ah, sweet Franciscan of the May, 

Dear chaplain of the fairy queen, 

You sent a singing heart away 
That day, from Ovingdean. 


A BEE SETS SAIL 
By Katharine Morse 

The wind blows east, the wind blows storm, 
And yet this very hour 
I saw a bumblebee embark 
In frigate of a flower; 


“ LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS " 189 


An admiral in epaulets, 

He strode the scented deck 
And in the teeth of tossing gales 
He rode without a wreck. 

More valorous adventurer 
I never hope to see,— 

Though mariners be gallant men, — 
Than that same bumblebee. 

THE HUMBLE-BEE 
By Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Burly, dozing humble-bee, 

Where thou art is clime for me. 

Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek; 

I will follow thee alone, 

Thou animated torrid-zone! 

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 

Let me chase thy waving lines; 

Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion! 

Sailor of the atmosphere; 

Swimmer through the waves of air; 
Voyager of light and noon; 
Epicurean of June; 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum,— 

All without is martyrdom. 


190 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

When the south wind, in May days, 

With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall, 

And, with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance, 

And, infusing subtle heats, 

Turns the sod to violets, 

Thou, in sunny solitudes, 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer’s petted crone, 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours, 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen; 

But violets and bilberry bells, 

Maple-sap and daffodels, 

Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky, 

Columbine with horn of honey, 

Scented fern, and agrimony, 

Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue 
And brier-roses, dwelt among; 

All besides was unknown waste, 

All was picture as he passed. 




LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS ” 191 


Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher! 

Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet, 

Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat 
When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
Thou already slumberest deep; 
Woe and want thou canst outslecp; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 


INDIFFERENCE 
By Louise Driscoll 

Over my garden 
An airplane flew, 

But nothing there 

Either cared or knew. 

Cabbage butterflies 
Chased each other. 

A young wren cried 
Seeking his mother. 

Gay zinnias 

With heavy heads 

Flaunted yellows 

And mauves and reds. 


192 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

A humming-bird 

On the late larkspur 
Never knew what 
Went over her. 

Crickets chirped 

And a blinking toad 
Watched for flies 
On the gravel road. 

They don’t care 

How smart men are— 

To go through Heaven 
In a flying car! 

To a yellow bee 
On a marigold 
The adventure seems 
A trifle old. 


THE DRAGON FLY 

By Jessie B. Rittenliouse 

The day was set to a beautiful theme 
By the blue of a dragon-fly 
That poised with his airy wings agleam 
On a flower, as I passed by. 

So frail and so lovely—a touch would destroy; 

He seemed but a fancy, a whim; 

Yet this gossamer thing is a breath of God’s joy, 
And Life is made perfect in him! 


“ LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS " 193 


A CATERPILLAR’S APOLOGY FOR 
EATING A FAVORITE GLADIOLUS 

By Charles Dalmon 

Confuse me not with impious things; 
But wait for the appointed hour 
When you shall see your vanished flower 
Reborn resplendent in my wings! 


THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY 

By Helen Granville-Barker 

If I lie quite still in their net 
Good fortune may befall— 

They may think it was only a moth they 
caught— 

No butterfly at all! 

But if once they learn of the blue 
And purple of my wings, 

And their flash, when the rays of the 
noonday sun 

Light all their golden rings; 

If once they know me the love 
Of the rose that sheltered me, 

And the playmate of all the garden 
flowers,— 

They will never set me free. 


194 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


BETE HUMAINE 

By Francis Brett Young 

Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise, 

I saw the world awake; and as the ray 
Touched the tall grasses where they dream till 
day, 

Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies, 

With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes 
Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay. 

I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay 
Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading d} r es. . . . 
Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain 
And horror, at my own careless cruelty, 

That where all things are cruel I had slain 
A creature whose sweet life it is to fly: 

Like beasts that prey with bloody claw. . . . 
Nay, they 

Must slay to live, but what excuse had IP 

A CRICKET SINGING IN THE MARKET-PLACE 

By Louella C. Poole 

Down in the city’s market-place, 

To-day, as I passed by, 

Above the tumult and the din 
I heard a cricket cry. 

Poor little straying vagabond, 

Wee singer of the street, 

Trilling in that mad wilderness 
His song so blithely sweet! 


" LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS " 


195 


I halted in that busy mart, 

Amongst the produce there, 

For suddenly I seemed to see 
A vista wondrous fair— 

Of God’s great open country, 

Horizons dim and far, 

And that same call at even-fall, 

When rose the first pale star. 

I saw a brooklet edged with ferns, 
Where tiny minnows play, 

Above the glittering golden sands, 

At hide-and-seek all day; 

And rustling cornfields, meadows brown, 
A-spangled with the dew; 

The hills with Indian summer haze 
Ethereal and blue. 

I heard the tinkling cow-bells, 

And smelt the breath of kine, 

The scent of ripening orchards, 

Grapes purpling on the vine. 

O vision fair, revealing 

Such range of time and space! 
Moved nigh to tears, in softened mood 
I left the market-place. 

Ah, minstrel gay, wee troubadour 
With voice so shrilly sweet, 

You little know what power you had 
To spur my lagging feet, 

And bear my spirit far away 
From all that rush and roar, 

To God’s own blessed country 
And happy days of yore! 


196 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE GRASSHOPPER 
By W. R. Childe 

Upon a viol of carven jade, 

With crystal stops and silver strings, 
Unvexed, untiring, unafraid, 

He strums and sings, he strums and sings. 
Ah, what a music he imparts, 

While every rich hill-meadow flames; 

He is a wizard of wise arts, 

He is a minstrel of sweet names. 

Through the hot noonday’s breathless hours 
His delicate secret jo}^ he tells, 

Amid wind-murmuring azure flowers, 

Wild crimson buds and golden bells. 
Beneath the cold marmoreal horns, 

Beside the river’s gray-green foam, 

He lifts his song to hail the morns, 

And leads the coloured evenings home. 

The peaks shine towering in the sun, 

The waters leap, the sweet winds stir; 

His faery praise he ne’er hath done, 

That emerald lad the grasshopper. 

THE ANTS 
By John Clare 

What w r onder strikes the curious, while he views 
The black ant’s city, by a rotten tree, 

Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse: 

Pausing, annoyed,—we know not what we see, 
Such government and thought there seem to be; 


LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS " 197 


Some looking on, and urging some to toil, 
Dragging their loads of bent-stalks slavishly: 

And what’s more wonderful, when big loads foil 
One ant or two to carry, quickly then 

A swarm flock round to help their fellow-men. 
Surely they speak a language whisperingly, 

Too fine for us to hear; and sure their ways 
Prove they have kings and laws, and that they be 
Deformed remnants of the Fairy-days. 

THE GARDEN SPIDER 

By Charles Mackay 

I 

Though fear’d by many, scorn’d by all, 

Poor spider on my garden wall, 

Accused as ugly, cruel, sly, 

And seen with an averted eye; 

Thou shalt not lack one friend to claim 
Some merit for thy injured name, 

If I have strength to right the wrong, 

Or in men’s memory lives my song. 

II 

Men call thee ugly;—did they look 
With closer eyes on Nature’s book, 

They might behold in seeing thee 
A creature robed in brilliancy; 

They might admire thy speckled back 
Begemm’d with purple, gold, and black; 

Thy hundred eyes, with diamond rims; 

Thy supple and resplendent limbs. 


198 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


III 

They call thee cruel; but forget, 
Although thy skilful trap be set 
To capture the unwary prey, 

That thou must eat as well as they. 

No pamper’d appetites hast thou; 

What kindly Nature’s laws allow 
Thou takest for thy daity food, 

And kindly Nature owns it good. 

IV 

Fie on us! we who hunt and kill, 
Voracious, but unsated still; 

Who ransack earth, and sea, and air, 
And slay all creatures for our fare, 
Complain of thee, w T hose instinct leads, 
Unerring, to supply thy needs, 

Because thou takest now T and then 
A fly, thy mutton, to thy den. 

V 

And then we call thee sly, forsooth, 

As if from earliest dawn of youth 
We did not lay our artful snares 
For rabbits, woodcocks, larks, and hares, 
Or lurk all day by running brooks 
To capture fish with cruel hooks, 

And with a patient, deep, deceit 
Betray them with a counterfeit. 


" LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS ’’ 199 


VI 

So let the thoughtless sneer or laugh ,* 
I’ll raise my voice in thy behalf. 

The life thou livest, Nature meant— 

It cannot be but innocent; 

She gave thee instinct to obey, 

Her faultless hand design’d thy prey; 
And if thou killest, well we know 
’Tis need, not sport, compels the blow. 

VII 

And while I plead thy simple case 
Against the slanderers of thy race, 
And think thy skilful w r eb alone 
Might for some venial faults atone, 

I will not pass unnoticed by 
Thy patience in calamity, 

Thy courage to endure or wait, 

Thy self-reliance strong as Fate. 

VIII 

Should stormy wind or thunder-shower 
Assail thy web in evil hour; 

Should ruthless hand of lynx-eyed boy, 
Or the prim gardener’s rake, destroy 
The clever mathematic maze 
Thou spreadest in our garden ways, 

No vain repinings mar thy rest, 

No idle sorrows fill thy breast. 


200 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


IX 

Thou mayst perchance deplore thy lot, 

Or sigh that fortune loves thee not; 

But never dost thou sulk and mope, 

Or lie and groan, forgetting hope; 

Still with a patience, calm and true, 

Thou workest all thy work anew, 

As if thou felt that Heaven is just 
To every creature of the dust, 

X 

And that the Providence whose plan 
Gives life to spiders as to man, 

Will ne’er accord its aid divine 
To those who lazily repine; 

But that all strength to those is given 
Who help themselves, and trust in Heaven. 
Poor insect! to that faith I cling— 

I learn thy lesson while I sing. 



201 






















In a cool curving world he lies 
And ripples with dark ecstasies. 

The Fish. Rupert Brooke. 


202 


IN STREAM AND SEA 


“LUKANNON” 

(Song of the Seal-Rookeries , Aleutian Islands) 

By Rudyard Kipling 

I met my mates in the morning (and oh, but I am old!) 

Where roaring on the ledges the summer ground-swell 
rolled. 

I heard them lift the chorus that drowned the breakers’ 
song— 

The Beaches of Lukannon—two million voices strong! 

The song of pleasant stations beside the salt lagoons , 

The song of blowing squadrons that shuffled dozen the 
dunes , 

The song of midnight dances that churned the sea to 
flame — 

The Beaches of Lukannon—before the sealers camel 

I met my mates in the morning (I’ll never meet them 
more!) ; 

They came and went in legions that darkened all the 
shore. 

And through the foam-flecked offing as far as voice 
could reach 

We hailed the landing-parties and we sang them up the 
beach. 

The Beaches of Lukannon—the zeinter-zvheat so tall — 

The dripping , crinkled lichens , and the sea-fog drench¬ 
ing all! 


203 





204 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

The platforms of our playground, all shining smooth 
and worn! 

The beaches of Lukannon—the home where we were 
born! 

I meet my mates in the morning, a broken, scattered 
band. 

Men shoot us in the water and club us on the land; 
Men drive us to the Salt House like silly sheep and 
tame, 

And still we sing Lukannon—before the sealers came. 

Wheel down, wheel down to southward! Oh, Gooverooska 
go! 

And tell the Deep-Sea Viceroys the story of our woe; 
Ere, empty as the shark's egg the tempest flings ashore. 
The Beaches of Lukannon shall know their sons no more! 

MINNOWS 
By John Keats 

How silent comes the water round that bend; 

Not the minutest whisper does it send 
To the o’erhanging sallows; blades of grass 
Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass,— 

Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 
A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds; 

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, 
Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams, 

To taste the luxury of sunny beams 
Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle 
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle 


IN STREAM AND SEA 


20 5 


Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. 

If you but scantily hold out the hand, 

That very instant not one will remain; 

But turn your eye, and they are there again. 

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, 
And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses; 
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, 
And moisture, that the bowery green may live. 

THOU LITTLE GOD WITHIN THE BROOK” 

By Philip Henry Savage 

Thou little god within the brook 
That dwellest, friend of man, 

I oft have heard the simple prayer 
Thou tellest unto Pan: 

That he who comes with rod and line 
And robs thy life to-day, 

May yet by the great god be taught 
To come some other w r ay. 


THE FISH 

By Rupert Brooke 

In a cool curving world he lies 
And ripples with dark ecstasies. 

The kind luxurious lapse and steal 
Shapes all his universe to feel 
And know and be; the clinging stream 
Closes his memory, glooms his dream, 


206 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Who lips the roots o’ the shore, and glides 
Superb on unreturning tides. 

Those silent waters weave for him 
A fluctuant mutable world and dim, 
Where wavering masses bulge and gape 
Mysterious, and shape to shape 
Dies momently through whorl and hollow, 
And form and line and solid follow 
Solid and line and form to dream 
Fantastic down the eternal stream; 

An obscure world, a shifting world, 
Bulbous, or pulled to thin, or curled, 

Or serpentine, or driving arrows, 

Or serene sliding, or March narrows, 
There slipping wave and shore are one, 
And weed and mud. No ray of sun, 

But glow to glow fades down the deep 
(As dream to unknown dream in sleep) ; 
Shaken translucency illumes 
The hyaline of drifting glooms; 

The strange soft-handed depth subdues 
Drowned colour there, but black to hues, 
As death to living, decomposes— 

Red darkness of the heart of roses, 

Blue brilliant from dead starless skies, 
And gold that lies behind the eyes, 

The unknown unnameable sightless white 
That is the essential flame of night, 
Lusterless purple, hooded green, 

The myriad hues that lie between 
Darkness and darkness! . . . 


IN STREAM AND SEA 


207 


And all’s one, 

Gentle, embracing, quiet, dun, 

The world he rests in, world he knows, 
Perpetual curving. Only—grows 
And eddy in that ordered falling 
A knowledge from the gloom, a calling 
Weed in the wave, gleam in the mud— 
The dark fire leaps along his blood; 
Dateless and deathless, blind and still, 

The intricate impulse works its will; 

His woven world drops back; and he, 

Sans providence, sans memory, 
Unconscious and directly driven 
Fades to some dank sufficient heaven. 

0 world of lips, O world of laughter, 
Where hope is fleet and thought flies after, 
Of lights in the clear night, of cries 
That drift along the wave and rise 
Thin to the glittering stars above, 

You know the hands, the eyes of love! 

The strife of limbs, the sightless clinging, 
The infinite distance, and the singing 
Blown by the wind, a flame of sound, 

The gleam, the flowers, and vast around 
The horizon, and the heights above— 

You know the sigh, the song of love! 

But there the night is close, and there 
Darkness is cold and strange and bare; 
And the secret deeps are whisperless; 

And rhythm is all deliciousness; 


v 




208 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And joy is in the throbbing tide, 
Whose intricate fingers treat and glide 
In felt bewildering harmonies 
Of trembling touch; and music is 
The exquisite knocking of the blood. 
Space is no more, under the mud; 

His bliss is older than the sun. 

Silent and straight the waters run. 
The lights, the cries, the willows dim, 
And the dark tide are one with him. 



209 


































The war-lord, yea, of a countless host, 

But gone is your kingly sway; 

For never again will you head the herd 
In the spring when the young calves play. 

To a Buffalo Skull. Robert V. Carr, 


210 


WESTERN TRAILS 


THE BRONCHO THAT WOULD NOT BE 

BROKEN 

By Vachel Lindsay 

A little colt—broncho, loaned to the farm 
To be broken in time without fury or harm, 

Yet black crows flew past you, shouting alarm, 
Calling “ Beware,” with lugubrious singing . 

The butterflies there in the bush were romancing, 

The smell of the grass caught your soul in a trance, 
So why be a-fearing the spurs and the traces, 

O broncho that would not be broken of dancing? 

You were born with the pride of the lords great and 
olden 

Who danced, through the ages, in corridors golden. 

In all the wide farm-place the person most human. 

You spoke out so plainty with squealing and capering, 
With whinnying, snorting, contorting and prancing, 

As you dodged your pursuers, looking askance, 

With Greek-footed figures, and Parthenon paces, 

O broncho that would not be broken of dancing. 

The grasshoppers cheered. “ Keep whirling,” they said. 
The insolent sparrows called from the shed 
“ If men will not laugh, make them wish they were 
dead.” 

But arch were your thoughts, all malice displacing, 
Though the horse-killers came, with snake-whips advanc¬ 
ing. 


211 


212 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


You bantered and cantered away your last chance. 
And they scourged you; with Hell in their speech and 
their faces, 

O broncho that would not be broken of dancing. 

44 Nobody cares for you,” rattled the crows, 

As you dragged the whole reaper next day down the 
rows. 

The three mules held back, yet you danced on your toes. 
You pulled like a racer, and kept the mules chasing. 
You tangled the harness with bright eyes side-glancing, 
While the drunk driver bled you—a pole for a lance— 
And the giant mules bit at you—keeping their places. 
O broncho that would not be broken of dancing. 

In that last afternoon your 
The hot wind came down like a sledge-hammer stroke. 
The blood-sucking flies to a rare feast awoke. 

And they searched out your wounds, your death- 
warrant tracing. 

And the merciful men, their religion enhancing, 
Stopped the red reaper to give you a chance. 

Then you died on the prairie, and scorned all disgraces, 
0 broncho that would not be broken of dancing. 


boyish heart broke. 


THE MEETING 
By Arthur Chapman 

When walkin’ down a city street, 
Tw^o thousand miles from home, 
The pavestones hurtin’ of the feet 
That never ought to roam, 




WESTERN TRAILS 


213 


A pony just reached to one side 
And grabbed me by the clothes; 

He smelled the sagebrush, durn his hide! 
You bet a pony knows! 


I stopped and petted him, and seen 
A brand upon his side; 

I’ll bet, across the prairie green, 

He useter hit his stride; 

Some puncher of the gentle cow 
Had owned him—that I knows; 
Which same is why he jest says: “ How! 
There’s sagebrush in your clothes.” 


He knowed the smell—no doubt it waked 
Him out of some bright dream; 

In some far stream his thirst is slaked— 
He sees the mountains gleam ; 

He bears his rider far and fast, 

And real the hull thing grows 
When I come sorter driftin’ past 
With sagebrush in my clothes. 


Poor little hoss! It’s tough to be 
Away from that fair land— 

Away from that wide prairie sea 
With all its vistas grand; 

I feel for you, old hoss, I do— 

It’s hard, the way life goes; 

I’d like to travel back with you— 
Back where that sagebrush grow r s! 



214 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A COYOTE PROWLED 

By Annie Elizabeth Cheney 

A coyote came one night to the sea, 

And howled at the waves and howled at me, 

And the white-maned monster roared and mumbled 
At the dog that prowled and starved and grumbled. 
Thin and lank and ruffled and grey, 

He stalked and stalked in search of prey, 

And snarled and snapped and wailed at fate 
That dealt him dust and the dregs of hate. 

I gave him a bone and words and sighs, 

And he showed me his teeth and he show ed me his eyes; 
And his teeth w r ere clean and strong and white, 

And his eyes were fine as a frosty night. 

GRIZZLY 
By Bret Harte 

Coward,—of heroic size, 

In whose lazy muscles lies 
Strength w^e fear and yet despise; 

Savage,—whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks; 

Robber,—whose exploits ne’er soared 
O’er the bee’s or squirrel’s hoard; 

Whiskered chin and feeble nose, 

Claw r s of steel on babv toes,— 

Here, in solitude and shade, 

Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, 

Be thy courses undismayed! 



WESTERN TRAILS 


215 


Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 

Let thy rude, half-human tread 
Point to hidden Indian springs, 

Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, 

Hovered o’er by timid wings, 

Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 

Where the wild bee bolds her sweets,— 
Epicurean retreats, 

Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 

In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee; 

Thou mayst levy tithe and dole; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, 
From the pilgrim taking toll; 

Match thy cunning with his fear; 

Eat, and drink, and have thy fill; 

Yet remain an outlaw still! 

THE LAST ANTELOPE 

By Edzvin Ford Piper 

Behind the board fence at the banker’s house 
The slender, tawn-gray creature starves and thirsts 
In agony of fear. A dog may growl, 

It cowers; the cockcrow shakes it with alarm. 

White frost lay heavy on the buffalo grass 
That winter morning when three graceful shapes 
Slipped by the saddle-back across the ridge 
Along the rutted pathway to the creek. 

In former years the track was bare, and worn 
With feet of upland creatures every day. 


210 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

A boy spied these three outlaws. Two hours’ chase, 
Fifty pursuers, and the ways all stopped,— 

Guns, dogs, and fences. Torn by the barbed wire, 
Drilled by a dozen buckshot, one; the next, 
O’erheaped by snapping jaws, cried piteously 
An instant; but the last on treacherous ice 
Crashed through, a captive. 

Ropes—the jolting w T agon— 

Its heart was audible as you touched its fur. 

Behind the board fence at the banker’s house,— 
Oh, once it capered wild on dewy grass 
In grace and glee of dancing, arrowy bounds!— 

At the banker’s house, behind the high board fence 
The last slim pronghorn perishes of fear. 

TO A BUFFALO SKULL 
By Robert V. Carr 

On the sable wall your great skull gleams, 

A regal ornament; 

A relic of weathered bone and horn, 

Once lord of a continent. 

The war-lord, yea, of a countless host, 

But gone is your kingly sway; 

For never again will you head the herd 
In the spring when the young calves play. 

All bleached with the merciless sun and rain 
Of many and many a day, 

You’re all that is left to tell the tale 
How the black lines passed this way. 


WESTERN TRAILS 


217 


TO A RATTLESNAKE 
By Robert V. Carr 

You try your best to slip away 
Across the sun-baked alkali; 

And failing, rattle warning fair, 

While I decree that you must die. 

My gun roars out, I ride away, 

I’ve killed a rattlesnake, that’s all; 

No more o’er sun-baked alkali 

Will that dread shape in hatred crawl. 

“ In hatred crawl? ” Speak I the truth? 
I take your life as if I knew 

I had the right; yet I cannot 

Return that which I took from you. 

A baby has been known to lay 
Its little hands on you in glee, 

And you struck not. Perhaps my hate 
Is what stirs hate in you for me. 


A BISON-KING 

By Joaquin Miller 

Once, morn by morn, when snowy mountains flam’d 
With sudden shafts of light, that shot a flood 
Into the vale like fierv arrows aim’d 
At night from mighty battlements, there stood 
Upon a cliff, high-limn’d against Mount Hood, 

A matchless bull fresh forth from sable wold, 
And standing so seem’d grander ’gainst the wood 


218 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Than winged bull, that stood with tips of gold 
Beside the brazen gates of Nineveh of old. 

A time he toss’d the dewy turf, and then 
Stretch’d forth his wrinkled neck, and long and loud 
He call’d above the far abodes of men 
Until his breath became a curling cloud 
And wreathed about his neck a misty shroud. 

Permission to use this poem granted by Harr Wagner 
Publishing Company, San Francisco, California, publishers of 
Joaquin Miller’s Complete Poems. 














219 










































I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and 
chain— 

I will remember my old strength and all my forest- 
affairs. 

Toomai of the Elephants. Rudyard Kipling. 


220 


FROM THE JUNGLE 

THE TIGER 

By William Blake 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, 

In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand and what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see? 

Did He who made the Lamb, make thee? 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, 

In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

221 


222 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE PANTHER 

By Edwin Markham 

The moon shears up on Tahoe now: 

A panther leaps to a tamarack bough. 
She crouches, hugging the crooked limb: 
She hears the nearing steps of him 
Who sent the little puff of smoke 
That stretched her mate beneath the oak. 

Her eyes burn beryl, two yellow balls, 

As Fate counts out his last footfalls, 

A sudden spring, a demon cry, 
Carnivorous laughter to the sky. 

Her teeth are fastened in his throat 
(The moon rides in her silver boat) 

And now one scream of long delight 
Across the caverns of the night! 


TOOMAI OF THE ELEPHANTS 

By Rudyard Kipling 

I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and 
chain— 

I will remember my old strength and all my forest- 
affairs. 

I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar¬ 
cane. 

I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in 
their lairs. 


FROM THE JUNGLE 


223 


I will go out until the day, until the morning break, 
Out to the winds’ untainted kiss, the waters’ clean 
caress. 

I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket-stake. 

I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless! 


BEAST AND MAN IN INDIA 

By John Lockwood Kipling 

They killed a child to please the Gods 
In earth’s young penitence, 

And I have bled in that Babe’s stead 
Because of innocence. 

I bear the sins of sinful men 
That have no sin of my own, 

They drive me forth to Heaven’s wrath 
Unpastured and alone. 

I am the meat of sacrifice, 

The ransom of man’s guilt, 

For they give my life to the altar-knife 
Wherever shrine is built. 

The Goat. 

Between the waving tufts of jungle-grass, 
Up from the river as the twilight falls, 
Across the dust-beclouded plain they pass 
On to the village walls. 


224 POETBY S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Great is the sword and mighty is the pen, 

But over all the labouring ploughman’s blade— 
For on its oxen and its husbandmen 
An Empire’s strength is laid. 

The Oxen . 

The torn boughs trailing o’er the tusks aslant, 
The saplings reeling in the path he trod, 
Declare his might—our lord the Elephant, 
Chief of the ways of God. 

The black bulk heaving where the oxen pant, 
The bowed head toiling where the guns careen, 
Declare our might—our slave the Elephant 
And servant of the Queen. 

The Elephant. 

Dark children of the mere and marsh, 

Wallow r and waste and lea, 

Outcaste they wait at the village gate 
With folk of low degree. 

Their pasture is in no man’s land, 

Their food the cattle’s scorn, 

Their rest is mire and their desire 
The thicket and the thorn. 

But woe to those that break their sleep, 

And woe to those that dare 
To rouse the herd-bull from his keep, 

The w r ild boar from his lair! 

Pigs and Buffaloes . 



FROM THE JUNGLE 


225 


The beasts are very wise, 

Their mouths are clean of lies, 

They talk one to the other, 

Bullock to bullock’s brother 
Resting after their labours, 

Each in stall with his neighbours. 

But man with goad and whip, 

Breaks up their fellowship, 

Shouts in their silky ears 
Filling their soul with fears. 

When he has ploughed the land, 

He says: 

But the beasts in stall together, 

Freed from the yoke and tether, 

Say as the torn flanks smoke: 

“ Nay, ’twas the whip that spoke.” 

THE MONKEY 
By Nancy Campbell 

I saw you hunched and shivering on the stones, 

The bleak wind piercing to your fragile bones, 
Your shabby scarlet all inadequate: 

A little ape that had such human eyes 
They seemed to hide behind their miseries— 
Their dumb and hopeless bowing down to fate— 
Some puzzled wonder. Was your monkey soul 
Sickening with memories of gorgeous days, 

Of tropic playfellows and forest ways, 

Where, agile, you could swing from bole to bole 
In an enchanted twilight with great flowers 
For stars; or on a bough the long night hours 


They understand.” 



226 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Sit out in rows, and chatter at the moon? 
Shuffling you went, your tiny chilly hand 
Outstretched for what you did not understand; 
Your puckered mournful face begging a boon 
That but enslaved you more. They who passed by 
Saw nothing sorrowful; gave laugh or stare, 
Unheeding that the little antic there 
Played in the gutter such a tragedy. 



227 




































And he shall judge among the nations, and shall 
rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords 
into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: 
nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither 
shall they learn war any more. 

Isaiah 2:4. 


228 


IN WAR SERVICE 

A MASCOT 
By Arthur Gutter man 

In the glow of their youth they have come, and they 
pass 

With the flare of the steel and the blare of the brass; 
And the brave little dog, with a brisk little wag 
To his stump of a tail, trots along by the flag, 

At his post in the ranks like the rest of the corps, 

For the brave little dog is away to the war. 

“ They will go! They will go! ” throbs a drum as it 
nears; 

There’s the fall of a wail in the roar of our cheers. 
But the brave little dog is as gay as a lark; 

There is joy, there is heart in his brave little bark 
As he gambols behind or he frolics before, 

For the brave little dog is away to the war. 

He’s away to the war. There’ll be need of him there— 
Of the stanch little tyke that’s the foe of despair; 
For there’s none that’s so old in the world, or so wise, 
But may find a new faith in the depth of his eyes, 
And his tongue is a balm to the heart that is sore; 

So the brave little dog is away to the war. 

May the powers be good to the glad little elf, 

Who is first for his friends and is last for himself; 
May there still be a bone for his hunger to find, 

And a pat on the head from a hand that is kind; 
May the heaven of men keep a wide-open door 
For the brave little dog that’s away to the war. 

229 



230 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE FUSILIERS’ DOG 

(Run over , after having gone through the Crimean 

Campaign ) 

By Francis Doyle 

Go lift him gently from the wheels, 

And soothe his dying pain, 

For love and care e’en yet he feels 
Though love and care be vain; 

’Tis sad that, after all these j^ears, 

Our comrade and our friend, 

The brave dog of the Fusiliers, 

Should meet with such an end. 

Up Alma’s hill, among the vines, 

We laughed to see him trot, 

Then frisk along the silent lines, 

To chase the rolling shot: 

And, when the work waxed hard by day, 

And hard and cold by night; 

When that November morning lay 
Upon us, like a blight, 

And eyes were strained, and ears were bent, 
Against the muttering north, 

Till the grey mist took shape, and sent 
Grey scores of Russians forth— 

Beneath that slaughter wild and grim, 

Nor man nor dog would run; 

He stood by us, and we by him, 

Till the great fight was done. 


IN WAR SERVICE 


231 


And right throughout the snow and frost 
He faced both shot and shell; 

Though unrelieved, he kept his post, 
And did his duty well. 

By death on death the time was stained, 
By want, disease, despair; 

Like autumn leaves our army waned, 

But still the dog was there: 


He cheered us through those hours of gloom; 

We fed him in our dearth; 

Through him the trench’s living tomb 
Rang loud with reckless mirth; 

And thus, when peace returned once more, 
After the city’s fall, 

That veteran home in pride we bore, 

And loved him, one and all. 


With ranks refilled, our hearts were sick, 
And to old memories clung; 

The grim ravines we left glared thick 
With death-stones of the young. 
Hands which had patted him lay chill, 
Voices which called were dumb, 

And footsteps that he watched for still 
Never again could come. 


Never again; this world of woe 
Still hurries on so fast; 

They come not back, ’tis he must go 
To join them in the past: 


232 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

There, with brave names and deeds entwined, 
Which Time may not forget, 

Young Fusiliers unborn shall find 
The legend of our pet. 

Whilst o’er fresh years, and other life 
Yet in God’s mystic urn, 

The picture of the mighty strife 
Arises sad and stern— 

Blood all in front, behind far shrines 
With women weeping low, 

For whom each lost one’s fane but shines, 

As shines the moon on snow— 

Marked by the medal, his of right, 

And by his kind keen face, 

Under that visionary light 

Poor Bob shall keep his place; 

And never may our honoured Queen 
For love and service pay, 

Less brave, less patient, or more mean 
Than his we mourn to-day! 

THE TURKISH TRENCH DOG 

By Geoffrey Dearmer 

Night held me as I crawled and scrambled near 
The Turkish lines. Above, the mocking stars 
Silvered the curving parapet, and clear 
Cloud-latticed beams o’erflecked the land with bars 
I, crouching, lay between 

Tense-listening armies peering through the night, 
Twin giants bound by tentacles unseen. 


IN WAR SERVICE 


233 


Here in dim-shadowed light 
I saw him, as a sudden movement turned 
His eyes towards me, glowing eyes that burned 
A moment ere his snuffling muzzle found 
My trail; and then as serpents mesmerize 
He chained me with those unrelenting eyes, 
That muscle-sliding rhythm, knit and bound 
In spare-limbed symmetry, those perfect jaws 
And soft-approaching pitter-patter paws. 
Nearer and nearer like a wolf he crept— 

That moment had my swift revolver leapt— 
But terror seized me, terror born of shame 
Brought flooding revelation. For he came 
As one who offers comradeship deserved, 

An open ally of the human race, 

And sniffling at my prostrate form unnerved 
He licked my face! 


THE DOGS OF AVAR 

By Nora Archibald Smith 

Time was, and not so long ago, as men count time, 
AVhen dogs were symbols of uncleanliness, 

AATetched, abhorred, ranked with the scum of earth. 
No taunt, no insult deeper could be thought, 

When taunts were needed, than the old, old phrase: 

“ Dog that thou art! Thou shameless and impenitent! ” 

Dogs such as these have had their evil day; 

No more they crawl and fawn, abased and suffering; 
No more they slink in gutters, feed from offal heaps. 


234 POETRY S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Theirs is the post of pow’r, the warlike field, 

And man, who once abused them, trusts to-day 
In doggish fortitude, in doggish constancy. 

Oh, wondrous change! Beasts that were scorned of all 

Sit by their masters now, as loaded wains 

Creep o’er the country with their freight of war. 

The soldier drives, one arm about his friend, 

And half his comfort in the endless days 

Is the warm heart beside him, doglike answering. 

Pariahs once, now r mascots dearly prized; 

Fugitives once, now messengers of war; 

No creature’s place so changed in common estimate* 
Like beasts bewitched, in fairy tales of old, 

Some magic touch laid on their shagg}^ heads 

Has turned them all to kings, to four-foot potentates. 


THE WAR-HORSE BUYERS 
By Arthur Chapman 

Twenty of us ridin’ bronks, headed for the war; 
Twenty top-hand saddlemen, up in bustin’ lore; 

Off the ranges fast they come, hosses black and gray, 
Hosses roan and calico, hosses brown and bay; 
Saddle, bridle, cinch and ride—buck, you big hoss, buck! 
You will be the captain’s choice—’bye, old nag—good 
luck! 

Tillery arid cavalry , ’tillery and cavalry , 

That’s the way they pick ’em when the judges are at 
work; 



IN WAR SERVICE 


235 


9 Tillery and cavalry , ’tillery and cavalry, 

Farewell , Western mountain hoss , and don't you ever 
shirk; 

Steel and lead and powder smoke , there acrost the 
way — 

If it wasn't I'm a neutral I'd he off with you to-day. 

All the range is bein’ combed of the strong and fit; 
Bring more in, you wrangler men—let ’em taste the bit; 
Let the busters show each pace, ’neath the captain’s 
eyes; 

Good-bye, all of you to-day, to these Western skies; 
Twice around the ring you go—saddle off and stand 
While the captain tallies you for the fightin’ band. 

’Tillery and cavalry , 'tillery and cavalry , 

That's the way they pick and choose for the game of 
war; 

9 Tillery and cavalry , ’tillery and cavalry , 

Little difference where you go — fightin' is in store; 
Little difference where you shore—most of you must die; 
Western bosses, do your best—good luck , and good-bye! 


THE ARMY HORSE 
By McLandburgli Wilson 

Once they ploughed the fruitful field, 
Helped the reaper gain his yield, 
Came to eve with sweet content, 
Browsing when the day was spent. 
Now they lie with mangled hide, 
Fallen in the carnage tide. 



236 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

What to them the sounding phrase 
Which explains the bloody ways? 

Honour, place or racial stem, 

Slav or Teuton, what to them? 

Torn and dead or death denied, 

Fallen in the carnage tide. 

Now they wage the battle hot, 

Plunging under shell and shot, 

Charging in the cannon’s breath 
Bearing dealers of the death, 

Till in agony they bide, 

Fallen in the carnage tide. 

Theirs was not the chance to say 
Words of peace to save the day. 

They who could not hush the drum, 

Whose Creator made them dumb, 

Yet are one with those who ride, 

Fallen in the carnage tide. 

THE HORSES 

By Katharine Lee Bates 

“ Thus far 80,000 horses have been shipped from the 
United States to the European belligerents.” 

What was our share in the sinning, 

That we must share the doom? 

Sweet was our life’s beginning 
In the spicy meadow-bloom, 

With children’s hands to pet us 
And kindly tones to call. 

To-day the red spurs fret us 
Against the bayonet wall. 


IN WAR SERVICE 


237 


What had we done, our masters, 
That you sold us into hell? 
Our terrors and disasters 
Have filled your pockets well. 
You feast on our starvation; 

Your laughter is our groan. 
Have horses then no nation, 

No country of their own? 

What are we, we your horses, 

So loyal where we serve, 
Fashioned of noble forces 
All sensitive w r ith nerve? 

Torn, agonized, we wallow 
On the blood-bemired sod; 
And still the shiploads follow. 
Have horses then no God? 


“ GOOD-BYE, OLD FRIEND!” 

Anonymous 

(An actual incident on the road to a battery position in 

Southern Flanders) 

Only a dying horse! Pull off the gear 

And slip the needless bit from frothing jaws. 

Drag it aside there—leave the roadway clear— 
The battery thunders on with scarce a pause. 

Prone by the shell swept highway there it lies 
With quivering limbs, as fast the life tide fails. 
Dark films are closing o’er the faithful eyes 
That mutely plead for aid where none avails. 



238 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Onward the battery rolls—but one there speeds, 
Heedless of comrade’s voice or bursting shell— 
Back to a wounded friend who lonely bleeds 
Beside the stony highway where it fell. 

Only a dying horse! He swiftly kneels, 

Lifts the limp head and hears the shivering sigh, 
Kisses the horse while down his cheek there steals 
Sweet Pity’s tear—“ Good-bye, old man, good¬ 
bye ! ” 

No honors wait him, medal, badge or star, 

Though scarce could war a kindlier deed unfold; 
He bears within his breast, more precious far 
Beyond the gift of kings, a heart of gold. 

THE HORSE 

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

(Dedicated to the American Red Star Animal Relief) 

The man who goes into the fight, 

With the heart of a volunteer, 

Has the high ideal of doing right, 

To conquer his pain and fear, 

And the man who is forced to go 

Has his pride, and his will, and his faith, 

To help him over the road of woe 
To the goal of a crutch, or death. 

But the steed that is dragged from his stall 
To be plunged in the hell of war— 

Why what does he know of the country’s call, 
Or the cause he is suffering for? 


IN WAR SERVICE 


239 


But I think when he lies in his pain, 

Tortured and torn by the fray, 

He must long for the touch of a hand on his mane 
And the fields where he used to play. 

The world as we see it now 
Is only half man-made; 

As the horse recedes with a parting bow 
We know the part he has played. 

For the wonderful brain of man, 

However mighty its force, 

Had never achieved its lordly plan 
Without the aid of the horse. 

The forests felled by hand 
By the horse were carried away: 

And furrow and field were made to yield 
By his willing toil each day. 

He helped bring true in this age, 

The visions our forebears saw; 

And oft was given a grudging wage, 

Scant fare and a bundle of straw. 

The horse has no passion to kill 
Like man and the tiger and bear; 

Yet slave of a murderous wfill 
To the front of the fight he must fare 
Now the heart of a horse has love 
For the master and home it knew: 

And the mind of a horse can prove 
That memory dwells there, too. 

Oh, I think on the blood red sod 
Each wounded man prays to God: 


240 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And I think from the heart of a steed 
There must rise in his hour of need 
A cry for his master who seems 
A god in his equine dreams. 


GUN-TEAMS 

By Gilbert Frankau , R. S. A. 

Their rugs are sodden, their heads are down, their tails 
are turned to the storm. 

(Would you know them, you that groomed them in 
the sleek fat days of peace,— 

When the tiles rang to their pawings in the lighted stalls 
and warm,— 

Now the foul clay cakes on breeching-strap and clogs 
the quick-release?) 

The blown rain stings, there is never a star, the tracks 
are rivers of slime. 

(You must harness up by guesswork with a failing 
torch for light, 

Instep-deep in unmade standings, for it’s active-service 
time, 

And our resting weeks are over, and we move the guns 
to-night.) 

The iron tires slither, the traces sag; their blind Hooves 
stumble and slide; 

They are war-w r orn, they are weary, soaked with 
sweat and sopped with rain. 


IN WAR SERVICE 241 

(You must hold them, you must help them, swing your 
lead and centre wide 

Where the greasy granite pave peters out to squelch¬ 
ing drain.) 


There is shrapnel bursting a mile in front on the road 
that the guns must take; 

(You are nervous, you are thoughtful, you are shift¬ 
ing in your seat, 

As you w r atch the ragged feathers flicker orange flame 
and break)— 

But the teams are pulling steady down the battered 
village street. 


You have shod them cold, and their coats are long, and 
their bellies gray with the mud; 

They have done w T ith gloss and polish, but the fight¬ 
ing heart’s unbroke. 

We, who saw them hobbling after us down white roads 
flecked with blood, 

Patient, wondering why we left them, till we lost them 
in the smoke; 


Who have felt them shiver between our knees, when the 
shells rain black from the skies, 

When the bursting terrors find us and the lines 
stampede as one; 

Who have watched the pierced limbs quiver and the pain 
in the stricken eyes, 

Know the worth of humble servants, foolish-faithful 
to their gun! 


242 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


“ BAY BILLY ” 

By F. H. Gassaway 

’Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg— 
Perhaps the day you reck— 

Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine, 
Kept Early’s men in check. 

Just where Wade Hampton boomed away 
The fight went neck and neck. 

All day we held the weaker wing, 

And held it with a will; 

Five several stubborn times we charged 
The battery on the hill, 

And five times beaten back, re-formed, 
And kept our columns still. 



At last from out the center fight 
Spurred up a general’s aid. 

“ That battery must silenced be! ” 

He cried, as past he sped. 

Our colonel simply touched his cap, 

And then, with measured tread, 

To lead the crouching line once more 
The grand old fellow came. 

No wounded man but raised his head 
And strove to gasp his name, 

And those who could not speak nor stir 
“ God blessed him ” just the same. 

For he was all the world to us, 

That hero gray and grim; 


IN WAR SERVICE 


243 


Right well he knew that fearful slope 
We’d climb with none but him, 

Though while his white head led the way 
We’d charge Hell’s portals in. 

This time we were not half-way up, 

When, ’midst the storm of shell, 

Our leader, with his sword upraised, 
Beneath our bay’nets fell; 

And, as we bore him back, the foe 
Set up a joyous yell. 

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept 
And when the bugle said, 

“ Up, charge, again! ” no man was there 
But hung his dogged head. 

“ We’ve no one left to lead us now,” 

The sullen soldiers said. 

Just then, before the laggard line, 

The colonel’s horse we spied— 

Bay Billy, with his trappings on, 

His nostril swelling wide, 

As though still on his gallant back 
The master sat astride. 

Right royally he took the place 
That was of old his wont, 

And with a neigh, that seemed to say, 
Above the battle’s brunt, 

“ How can the Twenty-second charge 
If I am not in front? ” 


244 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Like statues we stood rooted there, 

And gazed a little space; 

Above that floating mane we missed 
The dear familiar face; 

But we saw Bay Billy’s eye of fire, 

And it gave us heart of grace. 

No bugle-call could rouse us all 
As that brave sight had done; 

Down all the battered line we felt 
A lightning impulse run; 

Up, up the hill we followed Bill, 

And captured every gun! 

And when upon the conquered height 
Died out the battle’s hum, 

Vainly ’mid living and the dead 
We sought our leader dumb; 

It seemed as if a specter steed 
To win that day had come. 

At last the morning broke. The lark 
Sang in the merry skies, 

As if to e’en the sleepers there 
It bade awake! arise!— 

Though naught but that last trump of al 
Could ope their heavy eyes. 

And then once more, with banners gay, 
Stretched out the long brigade ; 

Trimly upon the furrowed field 
The troops stood on parade, 

And bravely ’mid the ranks were closed 
The gaps the fight had made. 


245 


IN WAR SERVICE 

Not half the Twenty-second’s men 
Were in their place that morn, 

And Corp’ral Dick, who yester-morn 
Stood six brave fellows on, 

Now touched my elbow in the ranks, 
For all between were gone. 

Ah! who forgets that dreary hour 
When, as with misty eyes, 

To call the old familiar roll 
The solemn sergeant tries— 

One feels that thumping of the heart 
As no prompt voice replies. 

And as in falt’ring tone and slow 
The last few names were said, 
Across the field some missing horse 
Toiled up with weary tread. 

It caught the sergeant’s eye, and quick 
Bay Billy’s name was read. 

Yes! there the old bay hero stood, 

All safe from battle’s harms, 

And ere an order could be heard, 

Or the bugle’s quick alarms, 

Down all the front, from end to end, 
The troops presented arms! 

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth 
Could still our mighty cheer. 

And ever from that famous day, 

When rang the roll-call clear, 

Bay Billy’s name was read, and then 
The whole line answered, “ Here! ” 


246 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


SHERIDAN’S RIDE 

By Thomas Buchanan Read 

Up from the South, at break of day, 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 

The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 

Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door, 

The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon’s bar; 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down: 

And there, through the flush of the morning light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night 
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his utmost speed; 

Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering 
south, 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s mouth, 


IN WAR SERVICE 247 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under the spurning feet, the road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 
Like an ocean flying before the wind; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
Swept on, wflth his wild eye full of fire; 

But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw w r ere the groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; 
What w r as done? what to do? a glance told him 
both, 

Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line, ’mid a storm of huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, 
because 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was 
gray; 

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril’s play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say: 

“ I have brought you Sheridan all the way 

From Winchester town to save the day! ” 


248 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! 

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldier’s Temple of Fame, 

There, with the glorious general’s name, 

Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: 

“ Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 

From Winchester—twenty miles away! ” 

MILES KEOGH’S HORSE 
By John Hay 

On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn, 

At the close of a woful da} r , 

Custer and his Three Hundred 
In death and silence lay. 

Three hundred to three thousand! 

They had bravely fought and bled; 

For such is the will of Congress 

When the White man meets the Red. 

The White men are ten millions, 

The thriftiest under the sun; 

The Reds are fifty thousand, 

And warriors every one. 

So Custer and all his fighting men 
Lay under the evening skies, 

Staring up at the tranquil heaven 
With wide, accusing eyes. 



IN WAR SERVICE 


249 


And of all that stood at noonday 
In that fiery scorpion ring, 

Miles Keogh’s horse at evening 
Was the only living thing. 

Alone from that field of slaughter, 
Where lay the three hundred slain, 
The horse Comanche wandered, 

With Keogh’s blood on his mane. 

And Sturgis issued this order, 

Which future times shall read, 

While the love and honor of comrades 
Are the soul of the comrade’s creed. 

He said: 

Let the horse Comanche , 
Henceforth till lie shall die, 

Be kindly cherished and cared for 
By the Seventh Cavalry. 

He shall do no labor; he never shall know 
The touch of spur or rein; 

Nor shall his back be ever crossed 
By living rider again. 

And at regimental formation 
Of the Seventh Cavalry , 

Comanche , draped in mourning , and 
By a trooper of Company 7, 

Shall parade with the regiment! 

Thus it was 

Commanded, and thus done, 

By the order of General Sturgis, signed 
By Adjutant Garlington. 


250 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Even as the sword of Custer, 

In his disastrous fall, 

Flashed out a blaze that charmed the world 
And glorified his pall, 

This order, issued amid the gloom 
That shrouds our army’s name, 

When all foul beasts are free to rend 
And tear its honest fame, 

Shall prove to a callous people 
That the sense of a soldier’s worth, 

That the love of comrades, the honor of arms, 
Have not perished from earth. 

ONLY MULES 
By Katharine Lee Bates 

“ The submarine was quite within its rights in sinking 
the cargo of the Armenian, —1,422 mules valued at 
$191,400.” 

No matter; we are only mules 
And slow to understand 

We drown according to the rules 
Of war, we contraband. 

War reckons us as shot and shell, 

As so much metal lost, 

And mourns the dollars gone to swell 
The monstrous bill of cost. 

Would that we had been wrought of steel 
And not of quivering flesh! 

Of iron, not of nerves that feel 
And maddened limbs that thresh 


IN WAR SERVICE 


251 


The sucking seas in stubborn strife 
For that dim right of ours 
To what no factory fashions, life, 

No Edison endowers. 

Our last wild screams are choked; you know 
It does not matter, for 
We’re only mules that suffered so, 

And contraband of war. 


THE LARK 

By Robert W. Service 

From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, 
The guns have brayed without abate; 

And now the sick sun looks upon 
The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate 
As if it loathed to rise again. 

How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! 
From yon down-trodden gold of grain, 

The leaping rapture of a lark. 

A fusillade of melody, 

That sprays us from yon trench of sky; 

A new amazing enemy 
We cannot silence though we try; 

A battery on radiant wings, 

That from yon gap of golden fleece 
Hurls at us hopes of such strange things 
As joy and home and love and peace. 


252 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Pure heart of song! do you not know 
That we are making earth a hell? 

Or is it that you try to show 
Life still is joy and all is well? 

Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain 
You beat into that bit of blue: 

Lo! we who pant in war’s red rain 
Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too, 

THE NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS 

By Grace Hazard Conkling 

“Le rossignol n'est pas mobilise” 

A French Soldier, 

The nightingales of Flanders, 

They have not gone to war. 

A soldier heard them singing 
Where they had sung before. 

The earth was torn and quaking, 

The sky about to fall. 

The nightingales of Flanders, 

They minded not at all. 

At intervals he heard them 
Between the guns, he said, 

Making a thrilling music 
Above the listening dead. 

Of woodland and of orchard 
And roadside tree bereft, 

The nightingales of Flanders 
Were singing, France is left! 



253 













































































I cannot tell how the truth may be; 
I say the tale as ’twas said to me. 


Lay of the Last Minstrel . 


Sir Walter Scott. 


254 


IN LEGEND 

THE HOMAGE OF BEASTS 
A Persian Fable 
By Augusta Larned 

King Solomon, as I have heard, 

The language knew of every bird. 

He reigned alike o’er man and beast, 

And bade them to his marriage feast. 

Slow filing past his ivory throne 
The animals came, one by one, 

And humbly made obeisance there 
For all their sovereign’s gentle care. 

The elephant, with mighty tread, 

This strange procession fitly led; 

And close behind the lion stalked, 

And all with due decorum walked. 

Such gifts they brought to please the bride, 
As nature’s richest stores supplied, 

And Solomon rejoiced to prove 
His subjects’ loyalty and love. 

Now far behind the stately train 
An ant came toiling o’er the plain, 

And in his mouth he dragged along 
A single grass-blade through the throng. 

255 


256 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Nor him did Solomon contemn, 
Nor this poor offering condemn; 
The ant he welcomed to the feast, 
E’en though the very last and least. 


By honoring both great and small, 
By scorning none and loving all, 
Was Solomon the wisest king 
In those old days whereof I sing. 


“HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
FROM GHENT TO AIX ” 

By Robert Browning 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 

“ Good speed! ” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un¬ 
drew ; 

“ Speed! ” echoed the wall to us galloping through; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 


Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 
place; 

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 

Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 


IN LEGEND 257 

’Twas the moonset at starting; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 

At Diiffield, ’twas morning as plain as could be; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half¬ 
chime 

So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!” 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black every one, 

To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 

And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 

With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 
back 

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance 
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! 

And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris “ Stay 
spur! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her, 
We’ll remember at Aix ”—for one heard the quick 
wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering 
knees, 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 


258 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 
chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And “ Gallop,” gasped Joris, “ for Aix is in sight! 


“ How they’ll greet us! ”—and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And wdth circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim. 


Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or 
good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 


And all I remember is,—friends flocking round 
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from 
Ghent. 


IN LEGEND 


259 


THE BELL OF ATRI 
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town 
Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, 

One of those little places that have run 
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, 

And then sat down to rest, as if to say, 

“ I climb no farther upward, come what may,”— 
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, 

So many monarchs since have borne the name, 
Had a great bell hung in the market-place, 
Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, 

By way of shelter from the sun and rain. 

Then rode he through the streets with all his train, 
And, with the blasts of trumpets loud and long, 
Made proclamation, that whenever wrong 
Was done to any man, he should but ring 
The great bell in the square, and he, the King, 
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. 

Such was the proclamation of King John. 

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, 

What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. 
Suffice it that, as all things must decay, 

The hempen rope at length was worn away, 
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, 
Loosened and wasted in the ringer’s hand, 

Till one, who noted this in passing by, 

Mended the rope with braids of briony, 

So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine 
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. 


260 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt 
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, 
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, 
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, 
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports 
And prodigalities of camps and courts;— 

Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, 
His only passion was the love of gold. 

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, 
Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, 
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, 

To starve and shiver in a naked stall, 

And day by day sat brooding in his chair 
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. 

At length he said: “ What is the use or need 
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, 

Eating his head off in my stables here, 

When rents are low and provender is dear? 

Let him go feed upon the public ways; 

I want him only for the holidays.” 

So the old steed was turned into the heat 
Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; 

And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, 

Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. 

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime 
It is the custom in the summer time, 

With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, 
The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; 

When suddenly upon their senses fell 
The loud alarum of the accusing bell! 


IN LEGEND 


261 


The Syndic started from his deep repose, 

Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose 
And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace 
Went panting forth into the market-place, 

Where the great bell upon its cross-beams swung, 
Reiterating with persistent tongue, 

In half-articulate jargon, the old song: 

“ Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a 
wrong! ” 

But ere he reached the belfry’s light arcade 
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, 

No shape of human form of woman born. 

But a poor steed, dejected and forlorn, 

Who with uplifted head and eager eye 
Was tugging at the vines of briony. 

“ Domeneddio! ” cried the Syndic straight, 

“ This is the Knight of Atri’s steed of state! 

He calls for justice, being sore distressed, 

And pleads his cause as loudly as the best.” 

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd 
Had rolled together like a summer cloud, 

And told the story of the wretched beast 
In five-and-twenty different ways at least, 

With much gesticulation and appeal 
To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. 

The Knight was called and questioned; in reply 
Did not confess the fact, did not deny; 

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, 

And set at naught the Syndic and the rest 
Maintaining, in an angry undertone, 

That he should do what pleased him with his own. 


262 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And thereupon the Syndic gravely read 
The proclamation of the King; then said: 

“ Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, 
But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; 
Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, 

Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds! 

These are familiar proverbs; but I fear 
They never yet have reached your knightly ear. 
What fair renown, what honor, what repute 
Can come to you from starving this poor brute? 
He who serves w r ell and speaks not, merits more 
Than they who clamor loudest at the door. 
Therefore the law decrees that as this steed 
Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed 
To comfort his old age, and to provide 
Shelter in stall, and food and field beside.” 


The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all 
Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. 

The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, 
And cried aloud: “ Right well it pleaseth me! 
Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; 

But go not in to mass; my bell doth more: 

It cometh into court and pleads the cause 
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the law r s; 

And this shall make, in every Christian clime, 
The Bell of Atri famous for all time.” 


IN LEGEND 


263 


SIR BAT-EARS 
By Helen Parry Eden 

Sir Bat-Ears was a dog of birth 
And bred in Aberdeen, 

But he favoured not his noble kin 
And so his lot is mean, 

And Sir Bat-Ears sits by the alms-houses 
On the stones with grass between. 

Under the ancient archway 
His pleasure is to wait 
Between the two stone pine-apples 
That flank the weathered gate; 

4 

And old, old alms-persons go by, 

All rusty, bent and black, 

44 Good day, good day, Sir Bat-Ears! ” 
They say and stroke his back. 

And old, old alms-persons go by, 

Shaking and well-nigh dead, 

44 Good night, good night, Sir Bat-Ears!” 
They say and pat his head. 

So courted and considered 
He sits out hour by hour, 

Benignant in the sunshine 
And prudent in the shower. 


264 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


(Nay, stoutly can he stand a storm 
And stiffly breast the rain, 

That rising when the cloud is gone 
He leaves a circle of dry stone 
Whereon to sit again.) 

A dozen little door-steps 
Under the arch are seen, 

A dozen aged alms-persons 

To keep them bright and clean; 

Two wrinkled hands to scour each step 
With a square of yellow stone— 

But print-marks of Sir Bat-Ears’ paws 
Bespeckle every one. 

And little eats an alms-person, 

But, though his board be bare, 
There never lacks a bone of the best 
To be Sir Bat-Ears’ share. 

Mendicant muzzle and shrewd nose, 

He quests from door to door; 

Their grace they say, his shadow grey 
Is instant on the floor— 

Humblest of all the dogs there be, 

A pensioner of the poor. 



IN LEGEND 


265 


FIDELITY 

By William Wordsworth 

A barking sound the shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox; 

He halts, and searches with his eyes 
Among the scattered rocks; 

And now at distance can discern 

A stirring in a brake of fern; 

And instantly a dog is seen 

Glancing from that covert green. 

The dog is not of mountain breed; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy; 

With something, as the shepherd thinks. 
Unusual in its cry: 

Nor is there any one in sight 

All round, in hollow or on height; 

Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; 

What is the creature doing here? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December’s snow; 

A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below! 

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dwelling, 

Pathway or cultivated land, 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 

The crags repeat the raven’s croak 
In symphony austere; 


266 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Thither the rainbow comes—the cloud— 

And mists that spread the flying shroud; 

And sunbeams, and the sounding blast, 

That, if it could, would hurry past, 

But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
The shepherd stood; then makes his way 
Towards the dog, o’er rocks and stones, 

As quickly as he ma}^; 

Not far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground; 

The appalled discoverer with a sigh 
Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
The man had fallen, that place of fear! 

At length upon the shepherd’s mind 
It breaks, and all is clear: 

He instantly recalls the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came; 
Remembered, too, the very day 
On wfliich the traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for w T hose sake 
This lamentable tale I tell! 

A lasting monument of w r ords 

This wonder merits w r ell. 

The dog, which still was hovering nigh, 
Repeating the same timid cry,— 

This dog had been through three months’ space 
A dweller in that savage place. 



IN LEGEND 


267 


Yes, proof was plain that since the day 
On which the traveller thus had died 
The dog had watched about the spot, 

Or by his master’s side: 

How nourished here through such long time 
He knows, who gave that love sublime, 

And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate! 

“ HOLD ” 

By Patrick R. Chalmers 

I know, where Hampshire fronts the Wight, 
A little church, where “ after strife ” 
Reposes Guy de Blanquely, Knight, 

By Alison his wife: 

I know their features’ graven lines 
In time-stained marble monotone, 

While crouched before their feet reclines 
Their little dog of stone! 

I look where Blanquely Castle still 

Frowns o’er the oak wood’s summer state, 
(The maker of a patent pill 
Has purchased it of late), 

And then through Fancy’s open door 
I backward turn to days of old, 

And see Sir Guy—a bachelor 

Who owns a dog called “ Hold ” ! 

I see him take the tourney’s chance, 

And urge his coal-black charger on 
To an arbitrament by lance 
For lovely Alison; 


268 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


I mark the onset, see him hurl 

From broidered saddle to the dirt 
His rival, that ignoble Earl— 
Black-hearted Massingbert! 

Then Alison, with down-dropped eyes, 
Where happy tears bedim the blue, 
Bestows a valuable prize 
And adds her hand thereto; 

My lord, his surcoat streaked with sand, 
Remounts, low muttering curses hot, 
And with a base-born, hireling band 
He plans a dastard plot! 


’Tis night—Sir Guy has sunk to sleep, 
The castle keep is hushed and still— 
See, up the spiral stairway creep, 

To work his wicked will, 

Lord Massingbert of odious fame, 

Soft followed by his cut-throat staff; 
Ah, “ Hold ” has justified his name 
And pinned his lordship’s calf! 

A growl, an oath, then torches flare; 

Out rings a sentry’s startled shout; 
The guard are racing for the stair, 
Half-dressed, Sir Guy runs out; 

On high his glittering blade he waves, 
He gives foul Massingbert the point, 
He carves the hired assassin knaves 
Joint from plebeian joint! 



IN LEGEND 


269 


The Knight is dead—his sword is rust, 
But in his day I’m certain “ Hold ” 
Wore, as his master’s badge of trust, 

A collarette of gold: 

And still I like to fancy that, 

Somewhere beyond the Styx’s bound, 
Sir Guy’s tall phantom stoops to pat 
His little phantom hound! 


BETH GELERT 

By Robert William Spencer 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, 

And cheerily smil’d the morn; 

And many a brach, and many a hound, 
Obey’d Llewelyn’s horn. 

And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a lustier cheer; 

“ Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 
Llewelyn’s horn to hear.”— 

Oh where does faithful Gelert roam, 

The flower of all his race; 

So true, so brave, a lamb at home, 

“ A lion in the chase ” ? 

’Twas only at Llewelyn’s board 
The faithful Gelert fed; 

He watch’d, he served, he cheer’d his lord, 
And sentinel’d his bed. 






270 POETRY’S PLEA FOE ANIMALS 

In sooth he was a peerless hound, 

The gift of royal John; 

But now no Gelert could be found, 

And all the chase rode on. 

And now, as o’er the rocks and dells 
The gallant chidings rise, 

All Snowdon’s craggy chaos yells 
The many-mingled cries! 

That day Llewelyn little lov’d 
The chase of hart and hare; 

And scant and small the booty prov’d, 

For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleas’d Llewelyn homeward hied; 

When, near the portal seat, 

His truant Gelert he espied 
Bounding his lord to greet. 

But, when he gain’d his castle door, 

Aghast the chieftain stood; 

The hound all o’er was smear’d with gore? 
His lips, his fangs, ran blood. 

Llewelyn gaz’d with fierce surprise; 

Unus’d such looks to meet, 

The favorite check’d his joyful guise, 

And couch’d, and lick’d his feet. 

Onward, in haste, Llewelyn pass’d, 

And on went Gelert too; 

And still, where’er his eyes he cast, 

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. 



IN LEGEND 


271 


O’erturn’d his infant’s bed he found, 

With bloodstain’d covert rent; 

And all around the walls and ground 
With recent blood besprent. 

He call’d his child, no voice replied— 

He search’d with terror wild; 

Blood, blood he found on every side, 

But nowhere found his child. 

“ Hellhound! my child’s by thee devour’d,” 
The frantic father cried; 

And to the hilt his vengeful sword 
He plung’d in Gelert’s side. 

His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, 

No pity could impart; 

But still his Gelert’s dying yell 
Pass’d heavy o’er his heart. 

Arous’d by Gelert’s dying yell, 

Some slumb’rer waken’d nigh;— 

What words the parent’s joy could tell 
To hear his infant’s cry! 

Conceal’d beneath a tumbled heap 
His hurried search had miss’d, 

All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

The cherub boy he kissed. 

Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread; 
But, the same couch beneath, 

Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, 
Tremendous still in death. 


272 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Ah, what was then Llewelyn’s pain! 

For now the truth was clear; 

His gallant hound the wolf had slain, 

To save Llewelyn’s heir. 

Vain, vain was all Llewelyn’s woe; 

“ Best of thy kind, adieu! 

The frantic blow which laid thee low, 

This heart shall ever rue.” 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 

With costly sculpture deck’d; 

And marbles storied with his praise 
Poor Gelert’s bones protect. 

There never could the spearman pass, 

Or forester, unmov’d; 

There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
Llewelyn’s sorrow prov’d. 

And there he hung his horn and spear, 
And there, as evening fell, 

In fancy’s ear, he oft would hear 
Poor Gelert’s dying yell. 

And, till great Snowdon’s rocks grow old, 
And cease the storm to brave, 

The consecrated spot shall hold 
The name of u Gelert’s grave.” 


IN LEGEND 


273 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 

Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart King; 
When on the boughs the purple buds expand, 

The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, 

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, 

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; 
The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; 
And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, 

Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, 
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: 

“ Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread! ” 

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, 

Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet 
Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 

The village with the cheers of all their fleet; 

Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 
Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 
Of oath and gibberish frightening girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 

In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; 


274 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 

Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; 

They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful 
words 

To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 

Levied black-mail upon the garden beds 
And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 

The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; 
The skeleton that waited at their feast, 

Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

* 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 

With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 

The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! 

Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one who said> 

“ A town that boasts inhabitants like me 
Can have no lack of good society!” 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 

The instinct of whose nature was to kill; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to } r ear, 
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill; 

E’en now, while walking down the rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 


IN LEGEND 


275 


From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass, 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 

Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, 
And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door, 

In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore; 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; 
There never was so wise a man before; 

He seemed the incarnate “Well, I told you so!” 
And to perpetuate his great renown 
There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 

With sundry farmers from the region round. 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 

His air impressive and his reasoning sound; 

Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small; 

Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 
But enemies enough, who every one 
Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart, 

Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, 

And, trembling like a steed before the start, 

Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; 
Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 

To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, 


276 POETRY S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 

And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

“ Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 

From his Republic banished without pity 
The Poets; in this little town of yours, 

You put to death, by means of a Committee, 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 

The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 

The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

“ The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood; 

The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, 

Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 

“ You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain! 

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

“ Do you ne’er think what wondrous beings these? 

Do you ne’er think who made them, and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 
Alone are the interpreters of thought? 


IN LEGEND 


277 


Whose household words are songs in many keys, 
Sweeter than instrument of man e’er caught! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven! 

“ Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of love! 

And when you think of this, remember too 
’Tis always morning somewhere, and above 
The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

“ Think of your woods and orchards without birds! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
As in the idiot’s brain remembered words 

Hang empty ’mid the cobwebs of his dreams! 

Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door? 

“ What! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 
Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? 

“You call them thieves and pillagers; but know, 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 


278 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, 

And from your harvests keep a hundred harms* 
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 

Renders good service as your man-at-arms, 
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

“ How can I teach your children gentleness, 

And mercy to the weak, and reverence 
For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 

Is still a gleam of God’s omnipotence, 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 
The selfsame light, although averted hence, 

When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, 
You contradict the very things I teach? ” 

With this he closed; and through the audience went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; 

The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 

The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, 

A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 

Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, 

But in the papers read his little speech, 

And crowned his modest temples with applause; 
They made him conscious, each one more than each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 
Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 

O fair Almira at the Academy! 


IN LEGEND 


279 


And so the dreadful massacre began; 

O’er the fields and orchards, and o’er woodland 
crests, 

The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their 
breasts, 

Or wounded crept away from sight of man, 

While the young died of famine in their nests; 

A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 

The very St. Bartholomew of Birds! 

The Summer came, and all the birds w T ere dead; 

The days were like hot coals; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed 
Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, 
Because like Herod, it had ruthlessly 
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down 
The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 

Upon each woman’s bonnet, shawl, and gown, 

Who shook them off with just a little cry; 

They were the terror of each favorite walk, 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 

Confessed their error, and would not complain, 
For after all, the best thing one can do 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 


280 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Then they repealed the law, although they knew 
It would not call the dead to life again; 

As schoolboys, finding their mistake too late, 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 
Without the light of his majestic look, 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 

The illumined pages of his Doom’s-Day book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, 
While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, 
Lamenting the dead children of the air! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 

A sight that never yet by bard was sung, 

As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue! 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down the street, 

Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds were brought, 
By order of the town, with anxious quest, 

And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought 
In woods and fields the places they loved best, 
Singing loud canticles, which many thought 
Were satires to the authorities addressed, 

While others, listening in green lanes, averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 


IN LEGEND 


281 


It was the fair Almira’s wedding-day, 

And everywhere, around, above, below, 
When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 
And a new heaven bent over a new earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 

PEARL SEVENTY-EIGHT 
(From Pearls of the Faith) 

By Edwin Arnold 


High noon it was, and the hot khamseen’s breath 
Blew from the desert sands and parched the town. 
The crows gasped, and the kine went up and down 
With lolling tongues; the camels moaned; a crowd 
Passed with their pitchers, wrangling high and loud, 
About the tank; and one dog by a well, 

Nigh dead with thirst, lay where he yelped and fell, 
Glaring upon the water out of reach, 

And praying succor in a silent speech, 

So piteous w r ere its eyes; which w r hen she saw 
This woman from her foot her shoe did draw, 

Albeit death-sorrowful, and, looping up 
The long silk of her girdle, made a cup 
Of the heel’s hollow r , and thus let it sink 
Until it touched the cool, black water’s brink; 

So filled th’ embroidered shoe, and gave a draught 
To the spent beast, which whined, and fawmed and 
quaffed 

Her kind gift to the dregs; next licked her hand, 
With such glad looks that all might understand 



282 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


He held his life from her; then, at her feet 
He followed close all down the cruel street, 

Her one friend in that city. 

But the king, 

Riding within his litter, marked this thing, 

And how the woman, on her way to die, 

Had such compassion for the misery 

Of that parched hound: “Take off her chain, and 
place 

The veil once more above the sinner’s face, 

And lead her to her home in peace! ” he said. 

“ The law is that the people stone thee dead 
For that which thou hast wrought; but there is come, 
Fawning around thy feet, a witness dumb, 

Not heard upon thy trial; this brute beast 
Testifies for thee, sister! w r hose w r eak breast 
Death could not make ungentle. I hold rule 
In Allah’s stead, who is 4 the Merciful,’ 

And hope for mercy; therefore go thou free — 

I dare not show less pity unto thee! ” 


ONE OF HIS ANIMAL STORIES 
By James Whitcomb Riley 

Now, Tudens, you sit on this knee—and ’scuse 
It having no side-saddle on;—and, Jeems, 

You sit on this —and don’t you w r obble so 
And chug my old shins with your coppertoes;— 
And, all the rest of you, range round someway,— 
Ride on the rockers and hang to the arms 
Of our old-time splint-bottom carryall!— 


IN LEGEND 


283 


Do anything but squabble for a place, 

Or push or shove or scrouge, or breathe out loud, 
Or chew wet, or knead taffy in my beard!— 

Do any thing almost—act anyway ,— 

Only keep still, so I can hear myself 
Trying to tell you “just one story more!’* 

One winter afternoon my father, with 
A whistle to our dog, a shout to us— 

His two boys—six and eight years old we were,— 

Started off to the woods, a half a mile 

From home, where he was chopping wood. We raced, 

We slipped and slid; reaching, at last the north 

»• 

Side of Tharp’s corn-field.—There we struck what 
seemed 

To be a coon-track—so we all agreed; 

And father, who was not a hunter, to 
Our glad surprise, proposed we follow it. 

The snow was quite five inches deep; and we, 

Keen on the trail, were soon far in the woods. 

Our old dog, “ Ring,” ran nosing the fresh track 
With whimpering delight, far on ahead. 

After following the trail more than a mile 

To northward, through the thickest winter woods 

We boys had ever seen,—all suddenly 

He seemed to strike another trail; and then 

Our joyful attention was drawn to 

Old “ Ring ”—leaping to this side, then to that, 

Of a big, hollow, old oak-tree, which had 
Been blown down by a storm some years before. 
There—all at once—out leapt a lean old fox 
From the black hollow of a big bent limb,— 

Hey! how he scudded!—but with our old “ Ring ” 




284 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Sharp after him—and father after 44 Ring ”— 

We after father, near as we could hold! 

And father noticed that the fox kept just 
About four feet ahead of 44 Ring ”—just that — 
No farther, and no nearer! Then he said:— 

“ There are young foxes in that tree back there, 
And the mother-fox is drawing 6 Ring ’ and us 
Away from their nest there! ” 44 Oh, le’ ’s go back!— 
Do le’ ’s go back! ” we little vandals cried,— 

44 Le’ ’s go back, quick, and find the little things— 
Please, father!—Yes, and take ’em home for pets— 
’Cause 4 Ring ’ he’ll kill the old fox anyway! ” 

So father turned at last, and back we went, 

And father chopped a hole in the old tree 
And about ten feet below the limb from which 
The old fox ran, and—Bless their little lives!— 
There, in the hollow of the old tree-trunk— 

There, on a bed of warm dry leaves and moss— 
There, snug as any bug in any rug— 

We found—one—two—three—four, and, 3 r es-sir, j five 
Wee, weenty-teenty baby foxes, with 
Their eyes just barely opened— Cute? —my-oh!— 
The cutest—the most cunning little things 
Two boys ever saw, in all their lives! 

44 Raw weather for the little fellows now! 99 
Said father, as though talking to himself,— 

44 Raw weather, and no home noiv! ”—And off came 
His warm old 44 waumus ” ; and in that he wrapped 
The helpless little animals, and held 
Them soft and warm against him as he could,— 
And home we happy children followed him.— 

Old King did not reach home till nearly dusk: 
The mother-fox had led him a long chase— 











IN LEGEND 


285 


“ Yes, and a fool’s chase, too! ” he seemed to say, 
And looked ashamed to hear us 'praising him. 

But, mother —well, we could not understand 
Her acting as she did—and we so pleased! 

I can see yet the look of pained surprise 
And deep compassion of her troubled face 
When father very gently laid his coat, 

With the young foxes in it, on the hearth 
Beside her, as she brightened up the fire. 

She urged—for the old fox’s sake and theirs— 

That they be taken back to the old tree; 

But father—for our wistful sakes, no doubt— 

Said we would keep them, and would try our best 
To raise them. And at once he set about 
Building a snug home for the little things 
Out of an old big bushel-basket, with 
Its fractured handle and its stoven ribs: 

So, lining and padding this all cosily, 

He snuggled in its little tenants, and 
Called in John Wesley Thomas, our hired man, 

And gave him in full charge, with much advice 
Regarding the just care and sustenance of 
Young foxes.—“ John,” he said, “ you feed ’em milk — 
Warm milk, John Wesley! Yes, and keep ’em by 
The stove —and keep your stove a-roarin\ too, 

Both night and day!—And keep ’em covered up—- 
Not smothered , John, but snug and comfortable.— 
And now, John Wesley Thomas, first and last,— 
You feed ’em milk—fresh milk—and always warm — 
Say five or six or seven times a day— 

Of course we’ll grade that by the way they thrive 
But, for all sanguine hope, and care, as well, 

The little fellows did not thrive at all.— 





286 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Indeed, with all our care and vigilance, 

By the third day of their captivity 
The last survivor of the fated five 
Squeaked, like some battered little rubber toy 
Just clean worn out.—And that’s just what it was! 
And—nights,—the cry of the mother-fox for her 
young 

Was heard, with awe, for long weeks afterward. 
And we boys, every night, would go to the door 
And, peering out in the darkness, listening, 

Could hear the poor fox in the black bleak woods 
Still calling for her little ones in vain. 

As, all mutely, we returned to the warm fireside, 
Mother would say: “ How would you like for me 
To be out there, this dark night, in the cold woods, 
Calling for my children? ” 


THE EMPEROR’S BIRD’S-NEST 

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellozv 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 

With his swarthy, grave commanders, 

I forget in what campaign, 

Long besieged, in mud and rain, 

Some old frontier town of Flanders. 

Up and down the dreary camp, 

In great boots of Spanish leather, 
Striding with a measured tramp, 

These Hidalgos, dull and damp, 

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. 


IN LEGEND 


287 


Thus as to and fro they went 
Over upland and through hollow, 

Giving their impatience vent, 

Perched upon the Emperor’s tent, 

In her nest, they spied a swallow. 

Yes, it was a swallow’s nest, 

Built of clay and hair of horses, 

Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest, 

Found on hedgerows east and west, 

After skirmish of the forces. 

Then an old Hidalgo said, 

As he twirled his gray mustachio, 

“ Sure this swallow overhead 
Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed, 

And the Emperor but a Macho! ” 

Hearing his imperial name 

Coupled with those words of malice, 

Half in anger, half in shame, 

Forth the great campaigner came 
Slowly from his canvas palace. 

“ Let no hand the bird molest,” 

Said he solemnly, “ nor hurt her! ” 
Adding then, by way of jest, 

“ Golondrina is my guest, 

’Tis the wife of some deserter! ” 

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 

Through the camp was spread the rumor, 
And the soldiers, as they quaffed 
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
At the Emperor’s pleasant humor. 


288 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

So unharmed and unafraid 

Sat the swallow still and brooded, 

Till the constant cannonade 
Through the walls a breach had made, 

And the siege was thus concluded. 

Then the army, elsewhere bent, 

Struck its tents as if disbanding, 

Only not the Emperor’s tent, 

For he ordered, ere he went, 

Very curtly, “ Leave it standing! ” 

So it stood there all alone, 

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 

Till the brood was fledged and flown, 

Singing o’er those walls of stone 

Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 


THE MILAN BIRD-CAGES 
A. D. 1485 

By Margaret J, Preston 

I 

Just four hundred years ago, 

(You may like to know)— 
In a city old and quaint, 

Lived a painter who could paint 
Knight or lady, child or saint, 
With so rich a glow, 

And such wondrous skill as none 
In the Land of Art had done. 


IN LEGEND 


289 


II 

Should you ever chance to take 
(As you will) a foreign tour, 

Milan you will see, I’m sure, 

For the Master’s sake, 

And be shown, in colors dim, 

One grand picture drawn by him— 
Christ’s Last Supper. If your eyes 
Fill, while gazing, no surprise 
Need be either yours or mine, 

O’er that face divine. 

III 

Then in Paris, if you go 
To the great Louvre Gallery, where 
Miles of paintings make you stare 
Till your eyes ache, they will show 
As they point the finest out, 

One the world goes mad about— 
Such a portrait, all the while 
How it haunts you with its smile, 
Lovely Mona Lisa! she 
Can’t be bought for gold, you see; 
Not if kings should come to buy, 
—Let them try! 

IV 

Oft the Master used to go 
(Old Vasari tells us so) 

To the market where they sold 
Birds, in cages gay with gold, 


290 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Brightly tipped on wing and crest, 
Trapped just as they left the nest. 
Thither went he day by day, 

Buying all within his way, 

Making the young peasants glad, 

Since they sold him all they had; 

And no matter what his store, 

Counting birds and cages o’er, 

He was always buying more. 

y 

“ Wherefore buy so many? ” Well, 
That’s just what I’m going to tell. 

Soon as he had bought a bird, 

O’er his upturned head was heard 
Such a trill, so glad, so high, 

Dropped from out the sunny sky 
Down into his happy heart; 

Filling it as naught else could— 

Naught save his beloved Art— 

Full of joy, as there he stood 
Holding wide the wicker door, 

Watching the bright captives soar 
Deep into the blue. You see 
Why he bought so many: He 
Did it just to set them free. 

VI 

Love I Leonardo so 

For his splendid pictures?—No! 

But for his sweet soul, so stirred 
By a little prisoned bird. 


IN LEGEND 


291 


WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 

When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wiirtzburg’s minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest: 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest; 

Saying, “ From these wandering minstrels 
I have learned the art of song; 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long.” 

Thus the bard of love departed; 

And, fulfilling his desire, 

On his tomb the birds were feasted 
By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o’er tower and turret, 

In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 

Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 

On the pavement, on the tombstone, 

On the poet’s sculptured face, 


292 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


On the cross-bars of each window, 

On the lintel of each door, 

They renewed the War of Wartburg, 
Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols, 

Sang their lauds on every side; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, “ Why this waste of food? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood.” 

Then in vain o’er tower and turret, 
From the walls and w T oodland nests, 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister’s funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 
Where repose the poet’s bones. 

But around the vast cathedral, 

By sweet echoes multiplied, 

Still the birds repeat the legend, 

And the name of Vogelweid. 



293 










Yet there in distant forests, where 
The little fur-clad creatures fare, 

Shrill cries of torture rend the air! 

To a Lady in Her Furs. James Beebe Carrington. 


294 


FOR VANITY 


FOUR LITTLE FOXES 
By Lew Sarett 

Speak gently, Spring, and make no sudden sound; 
For in my windy valley yesterday I found 
Newborn foxes squirming on the ground— 

Speak gently. 

Walk softly, March, forbear the bitter blow; 

Her feet within a trap, her blood upon the snow, 
The four little foxes saw their mother go— 

Walk softly. 

Go lightly, Spring, oh, give them no alarm; 

When I covered them with boughs to shelter them 
from harm, 

The thin blue foxes suckled at my arm— 

Go lightly. 

Step softly, March, with your rampant hurricane; 
Nuzzling one another, and whimpering with pain, 
The new little foxes are shivering in the rain— 

Step softly. 

THE KIND LADY’S FURS 
By Strickland Gillilan 

The white wolves belled on the ermine’s trail 
’Way up in the heart of the heartless north. 

295 


296 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


The ermine must haste ere his strength should fail; 

In spite of the danger, he hurried forth. 

He saw some food in a tempting cache; 

He hastened to gulp it and hurry on— 

Two jaws of a demon of steel went 44 Smash! ” 

And the animal’s hope of life was gone! 

A white man came ere the wolves might come, 
And he carried that ermine’s peltry home. 
Milady she wears it with joy and pride, 

Not caring a whit how the ermine died! 

(He had tugged at the trap for hours—ha, ha! 
Had struggled with all of his powers—la, la! 
So laugh as you wear your furs, ma chere, 
Laugh as you flaunt your furs!) 


The small boy placed by the meadow creek 
A steel trap held by a long strong chain. 

For there the muskrats, he knew, would seek 
Their nightly food—might they seek in vain! 

A muskrat came, and the jaws went 44 Crunch! ” 
And the night—ah, the cruel night was young! 
He gnawed at his leg—’twas a hideous lunch!— 
But the terrible trap-jaws clung and clung. 

The little lad at the dawning came, 

(He was kind when he wasn’t in search of 
44 game ”) ; 

He ripped from his victim the velvet hide, 

For milady’s wardrobe must be supplied! 

(He had writhed in the grisly grip—ha, ha! 
Nearly gnawed off his leg at the hip—la, la! 
So merrily wear your furs, ma chere, 

Merrily wear your furs!) 


FOB VANITY 


297 


TO A LADY IN HER FURS 
By J. B. Carrington 

The furs you wear are rich and rare, 

Your face is smiling, sweet and fair, 

Dear TENDERNESS seems biding there. 

And as you step adown the way, 

Of fashion’s pageant and display, 

You’ve not a care in all the day. 

Yet there in distant forests, where 
The little fur-clad creatures fare, 

Shrill cries of torture rend the air! 

MY LADY’S FUR 
By F. Ursula Bayne 

’Tis midnight in the forest cold and bleak, 

The north wind drives the snow, the icy reeds 
Bend o’er a cruel trap where faint and weak 
A timid furry creature slowly bleeds. 

Faintly above the wind she seems to hear 
Her little babies crying for her care; 

She writhes in agony, and moans in fear. 

For two long nights she has been dying there. 

’Tis midnight in the city. Cold and keen 

The north wind blows the sparkling snow about. 
Before the opera house a limousine 
Stops to receive a lady coming out. 


298 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Her rich, warm cloak she draws about her, so; 

The soft fur rests against her glowing cheek. 
This is the fur that just a year ago 

Clad that poor forest creature, stiff and weak. 

Could she but see that forest far away, 

Could she but hear the suff’ring creature’s cry, 
The lady’s laughter would not be so gay, 

Her lips would breathe a sympathetic sigh. 

She, who can move the very hearts of men, 

Would storm great Congress at its mighty door, 
Till legislation she would gain, and then 
The cruel, cruel trap would be no more. 


FOR VANITY 
By Hannah J. Dawtrey 

I would the scene might flash before your eye 
Of bonnie mother birds that bleed and die, 
When you with plumage rare 
Bedeck your hair, 

For Vanity. 


I would the piteous cry might haunt your ear, 
Of helpless orphan broods that pine in fear, 
When you white feathers wear, 

Ye ruthless fair, 

For Vanity. 


FOB VANITY 


299 


I would these sights and sounds of useless pain 
Might burn themselves upon your heart and brain, 
When you, unblushingly, dare 
Such spoils to share 
For Vanity. 

Who loves the birdlings, gave them the plumage gay 
For their own joy,—the God to whom ye pray; 
Remember when at prayer— 

He does not care 
For Vanity. 


DEAD BIRDS AND EASTER 

By May Riley Smith 

God thought it worth His while to make a bird— 
A joyous creature that could soar and float 
With sweetest melody man ever heard, 

Caught in the feathered meshes of its throat. 

And this rare thing with God’s own touch upon it 
Is rended wing from wing to trim a bonnet! 

It is an Easter morning, holy, calm,— 

And life, not death, is the glad theme to-day. 

The air is full of Spring’s delicious balm, 

The maple buds are dropping on the way. 

And one I saw, with flush of crimson on it, 

Fall on the dead birds of a woman’s bonnet! 

What say the bells at these good Easter times? 
They tell of vanquished death, and risen life! 
Hush then, O bells, your inconsistent chimes. 


300 POETEY S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


You and the dull old world are hard at strife; 
For surely when the crimson leaf fell on it, 

I saw dead birds upon a woman’s bonnet! 

What does it cost, this garniture of death? 

It costs the life that God alone can give, 

It costs dull silence where was music’s breath, 
It costs dead joy that foolish pride may live; 
Ah, Life and Love and Joy, depend upon it, 
Are costly trimmings for a woman’s bonnet! 


Who would arrest the sweet pulse of a lark 
That flutters in such ecstasy of bliss, 

Or lay a robin’s bright breast cold and stark 
For such a petty recompense as this? 

O, you who love your babies, think upon it. 

Mothers are slaughtered just to trim your bonnet! 


Will Herod never cease to rule the land 
That we should slay sweet innocency so? 

Is joy so cheap, or happiness sure planned? 

Tell me, you who are intimate with woe— 

Does your sad heart proclaim no ban upon it? 
Would you slay happiness just for a bonnet? 

And must God’s choirs that through His forests rove 
Whose matinees are free to high and low,— 

Must His own orchestra of fields and grove, 

Himself their leader, be disbanded so? 

Nay, nay, O God, proclaim thy ban upon it. 

Protect thy birds from sport, and greed, and bonnet! 


FOR VANITY 


301 


Dead birds, and dead for gentle woman’s sake 
To feed awhile her vanity’s poor breath! 

And yet the foolish bells sweet clamor make 

And tell of One whose power has vanquished death. 

Ah, Easter time has a reproach upon it 

While birds are slain to trim a woman’s bonnet! 


OUR BROTHERS OF THE FIELDS AND TREES 

By Charles Keeler 

I dreamed that I was Francis of Assisi 
In shadowy daisy field of misty dawn, 

The children of the air, my ministrants, 

Flocking about with matins of sweet song. 

“ My tiny choristers of field and tree, 

Blithe winged disciples,” so my sermon ran, 

“ I bring the word of God to comfort you, 

Good tidings of our Savior Christ, the risen.” 

And thereupon wings flapped about my face 
And cries derisive rang from feathered throats. 

“ You of the Titan race,” they shrilly called, 

“ Who preach of love and seek us but to slay, 
Apostates revelling in lust of blood! ” 

A mother robin ’plained: 66 What bliss was mine, 
What hope, what promise in those eggs of blue, 
Snug in my plastered cradle hid away 
Until the prying bandit eyes had pierced 
My leafy screen and my dear home despoiled! ” 


302 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


“ Alas,” outpiped the quail, “ the huntsman came 
And slew my chosen mate, and called it sport, 
While I am left in lonely copse to mourn.” 

Then with a wail of anguish winged anigh 

A snowy egret like an angel white 

Out of the mist of heaven to challenge me: 

66 A host of wings erstwhile amid the trees, 

A throng of mothers’ hearts about the nests! 

Ah, little did they dream of ravage drear, 

That mothers of the lordlier race of men 
So craved our nuptial dower of airy plumes 
That they should have us slain in wantonness 
While all our little ones with piteous cries 
Awaited the slow stealing on of death.” 

Thereat the frantic birds came clamoring round 
To mob me from the grove with mocking scorn, 
When loud a gun pealed forth its breath of doom, 
Some passing sportsman’s challenge to the throng, 
And lifeless fluttered down a feathery form. 
Startled I roused me from my sombre dream 
But shook not off the woodland reverie. 

What is this life we take so wantonly? 

A spark of God’s great love so stamped upon 
Because we have the craft and lust to kill! 

What Golden Rule is made for man alone? 

The beast looks in your eyes and cries you shame. 
Let us renounce blood sacraments and dare 
To live untainted by corrupting flesh, 

And in the might of tenderness rejoice. 

Methinks that Buddha’s way leads unto peace 


FOR VANITY 


303 


Through kinship with the least and lowliest lives. 
All are God’s children, even as thou and I, 
United in the spirit of brotherhood, 

And in th’ eternal reckoning shall be 
Accounted in the great Creator’s plan. 





305 



































































































































Sport! to slay with no cause to slay—not even the pride 
of hate! 

Courage? then stand to an even chance, facing a 
foeman’s gun 

Out in the open, eye to eye, for Honor of Kin or State, 
Oh, ye who slink in the woven blind seeking to kill— 
for fun! 

Braves of the Hunt . Henry Herbert Knibbs. 


306 


“ BRAVES OF THE HUNT ” 

IN COOL, GREEN HAUNTS 
By Mablon Leonard Fisher 

A sweet, deep sense of mystery filled the wood. 

A star, like that which woke o’er Bethlehem, 

Shone on the still pool’s brow for diadem— 

The first to fall of summer’s multitude! 

In cool, green haunts, where, haply, Robin Hood 
Ranged royally, of old, with all his train, 

A hushed expectance, such as augurs rain, 
Enthralled me and possessed me where I stood. 

Then came the wind, with low word as he went; 

The quick wren, swift repeating what he said; 

A chattering chipmunk lured me on and led 
Where scented brakes ’neath some wee burden bent:— 
One look—’twas this those wild things yearned to say: 
“ A little brown-eyed fawn was born to-day! ” 

THE CATCH 
By John Kendrick Bangs 

I’ve enjoyed the chase to-day 
Through the woodland wild. 

Fortune in a lavish way 
Hath my heart beguiled. 

I have filled my game-bag well— 

Better than I thought. 

Fat and teeming it doth swell 
With the things I sought. 

307 


308 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Songs of birds, and songs of trees. 

Gentle whisperings of the breeze. 

Splendid mess of mountain air. 

Odors of wild-flowers rare. 

Happy thoughts that grew apace 
As I watched the rillets race. 

Wondrous pictures in the skies. 

Vistas soft for tired eyes. 

Hints of peace, and hints of rest. 

Gorgeous colors in the west. 

Stores of gold flung far and wide 
O’er the gleaming country-side, 

As the sun smiled on the scene, 

Lighting up the forest green. 

O the joy, the glad delight, 

O the taste of bliss, 

Making homeward through the night 
With a catch like this. 

THE QUAILS 
By Francis Brett Young 

(In the South of Italy the peasants put out the eyes of a 
captured quail so that its cries may attract the flocks of 
spring migrants into their nets.) 

All through the night 

I have heard the stuttering call of a blind quail, 

A caged decoy, under a cairn of stones, 

Crying for light as the quails cry for love. 

Other wanderers, 

Northward from Africa winging on numb pinions, dazed 


“BRAVES OF THE HUNT” 


309 


With beating winds and the sobbing of the sea, 

Hear, in a breath of sweet land-herbage, the call 
Of the blind one, their sister. . . . 

Hearing, their fluttered hearts 
Take courage, and they wheel in their dark flight, 
Knowing that their toil is over, dreaming to see 
The white stubbles of Abruzzi smitten with dawn, 

And split grain lying in the furrows, the squandered gold 
That is the delight of quails in their spring mating. 

Land-scents grow keener, 

Penetrating the dank and bitter odour of brine 
That whitens their feathers; 

Far below, the voice of their sister calls them 
To plenty, and sweet water, and fulfillment: 

Over the pallid margin of dim seas breaking, 

Over the thickening in the darkness that is land, 

They fly. Their flight is ended. Wings beat no more. 
Downward they drift, one by one, like dark petals, 
Slowly, listlessly falling, 

Into the mouth of horror: 

The nets 

Where men come trampling and crying with bright 
lanterns 

Plucking their weak, entangled claws from the meshes of 
net, 

Clutching the soft brown bodies mottled with olive, 
Crushing the warm, fluttering flesh, in hands stained 
with blood, 

Till their quivering hearts are stilled, and the bright 
eyes, 

That are like a polished agate, glazed in death. 


310 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

But the blind one, in her wicker cage, without ceasing 
Haunts this night of spring with her stuttering call, 
Knowing nothing of the terror that walks in darkness, 
Knowing only that some cruelty has stolen the light 
That is life, and that she must cry until she dies. 

I, in the darkness, 

Heard, and my heart grew sick. But I know that to¬ 
morrow 

A smiling peasant will come with a basket of quails 
Wrapped in vine-leaves, prodding them with blood¬ 
stained fingers 

Saying, “ Signore, you must cook them thus, and thus, 
With a sprig of basil inside them.” And I shall thank 
him, 

Carrying the piteous carcases into the kitchen 
Without a pang, without shame. 

“Why should I be ashamed? Why should I rail 
Against the cruelty of men? Why should I pity, 
Seeing that there is no cruelty which men can imagine 
To match the subtle dooms that are wrought against 
them 

By blind spores of pestilence: seeing that each of us, 
Lured by dim hopes, flutters in the toils of death 
On a cold star that is spinning blindly through space 
Into the nets of time? ” 

So cried I, bitterly thrusting pity aside, 

Closing my lids to sleep. But sleep came not, 

And pity, with sad eyes, 

Crept to my side, and told me 

That the life of all creatures is brave and pitiful 


" BRAVES OF THE HUNT ’’ 311 


Whether they be men, with dark thoughts to vex them, 
Or birds, wheeling in the swift joys of flight, 

Or brittle ephemerids, spinning to death in the haze 
Of gold that quivers on dim evening waters; 

Nor would she be denied. 

The harshness died 
Within me, and my heart 

Was caught and fluttered like the palpitant heart 
Of a brown quail, flying 
To the call of her blind sister, 

And death, in the spring night. 


THE BLOODLESS SPORTSMAN 
By Sam Walter Foss 

“ Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? 

Loved the wood-rose and left it on its stalk? ” 

Emerson. 

I go a-gunning, but take no gun; 

I fish without a pole; 

And I bag good game and catch such fish 
As suit a sportsman’s soul; 

For the choicest game that the forest holds, 
And the best fish of the brook, 

Are never brought dow r n by a rifle shot 
And never are caught with a hook. 

I bob for fish by the forest brook, 

I hunt for game in the trees, 

For bigger birds than wing the air 
Or fish that swim the seas. 


312 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A rodless Walton of the brooks 
A bloodless sportsman, I— 

I hunt for the thoughts that throng the woods, 
The dreams that haunt the sky. 

The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, 
The brooks for the fishers of song; 

To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game 
The streams and the woods belong. 

There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the 
pine, 

And thoughts in a flower bell curled; 

And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of 
the fern 

Are as new and as old as the world. 

So, away! for the hunt in the fern-scented wood 
Till the going down of the sun; 

There is plenty of game still left in the woods 
For the hunter who has no gun. 

So, away! for the fish in the moss-bordered brook 
That flows through the velvety sod; 

There are plenty of fish still left in the streams 
For the angler who has no rod. 


POEM FOR PRUE 
By Norman Gale 

Bound, Hare, bound! 

Here’s a bully with a hound. 
If you’d really rather not 
Smell delicious in a pot, 


"BRAVES OF THE HUNT” 313 


Over briar and streamlet vault, 

Far from pepper, far from salt, 

Till at last jour toothy foe 
Cannot see which way you go. 

Bound, Hare, bound! 

Here’s a bully— 

Yes, a bully with a yard or two of hound. 


Look, Salmon, look! 

Here’s a bully with a hook. 

If it’s really not your wish 
Soon to decorate a dish, 

Don’t, by playing tug-of-war, 

Help this man to carry more 
Silvered beauty home, and bite 
Far too much of it at night. 

Look, Salmon, look! 

Here’s a bully— 

Yes, a bully with a minnow on his hook. 


Back, Fox, back! 

Here are bullies in a pack. 

If you really want to be 
Safe at home in time for tea, 

Bid your pads and brain and breath 
Hold you half a mile from Death 
Hunting you since middle-day 
All along your twisty way. 

Back, Fox, back! 

Here are bullies— 


Here are bullies with a horsey-doggy pack. 



314 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Run, Rabbit, run! 

Here’s a bully with a gun. 

If you really dread to lie 
Close to onions in a pie, 

Quit that turnip, and begin 
Legging homeward with the skin 
Just as dear, of course, to you, 
Powderpuff, as hers to Prue. 

Run, Rabbit, run! 

Here’s a bully— 

Yes, a bully with a cartridge in his gun. 

HOW TO CATCH A BIRD 
By Leland B. Jacobs 

Don’t hunt him with a sling or gun 
For that would surely spoil the fun; 

For when all life has left his breast 
You then can pick up all the rest— 

A crumpled body, red and small, 

A bit of plumage, that is all. 

You haven’t got his song or call! 

Don't hill him! 

I’ll tell a secret that I heard— 

The perfect way to catch a bird. 

Just get a bird book, called a guide, 
And with field-glasses at your side 
Go out into the woods and see 
The bird perched up in some tall tree; 
Stop, too, and hear his melody— 

You ’ve got him! 


BRAVES OF THE HUNT” 


31 5 


WOUNDED 
By Florence Wilkinson 

Let her creep to earth again, my children, 

She will never heed our signal calls. 

Do not whine along her track, 

She will not come footing back. 

She is wounded to the heart of her, my children, 
And the red blood follows where she falls. 

Let her be, forget her steps, my children, 
Forgotten be the anguish and the length: 

Let her find a covert place, 

There to hide her glazing face 
And to stretch her grievous paws in silence, chil¬ 
dren, 

Dripping drop by drop her scarlet strength. 

She will dread the common trail, my children, 
Crouching where the deepest shade is cast. 
Creatures of the earth and sky— 

None can comfort when we die 

Only dark and unremembering, my children, 

For we feel the Hour is come at last. 

She will creep wet-foot and slow, my children; 

She will never heed the signal call. 

She will voiceless be and blind 
To her kin and to her kind, 

Waiting in the shadow, O my children, 

Wounded—For that is the End of all. 


316 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE PUZZLED GAME-BIRDS 

By Thomas Hardy 

They are not those who used to feed us 
When we were young—they cannot be— 
These shapes that now bereave and bleed us 2 
They are not those who used to feed us, 

For did we then cry, they would heed us. 

—If hearts can house such treachery 
They are not those who used to feed us 
When we were young—they cannot be! 


TO A WILD GOOSE OVER DECOYS 

By Lew Sarett 

“ O lonely trumpeter, coasting down the sky, 

Like a winter leaf blown from the bur-oak tree 
By whipping winds, and flapping silverly 
Against the sun,—I know your lonely cry. 

I know the worn wild heart that bends your flight 
And circles you above this beckoning lake, 

Eager of neck, to find the honking drake 
Who speaks of reedy refuge for the night. 

I know the sudden rapture that you fling 
In answer to our friendly gander’s call— 

Halloo! Beware decoys!—or you will fall 
With a silver bullet whistling in your wing! 



BRAVES OF THE HUNT ” 


317 


Beat on your weary flight across the blue! 
Beware, O traveller, of our gabbling geese! 
Beware this weedy counterfeit of peace!— 
Oh, I was once a passing bird like you.” 


From “ WINDSOR FOREST ” 

By Alexander Pope 

With slaughtering guns the unwearied fowler roves, 
When frosts have whiten’d all the naked groves; 
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o’ershade, 
And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade, 

He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye; 

Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky. 

Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, 

The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death: 

Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare, 

They fall, and leave their little lives in air. 


WOUNDS 

By Arthur C. Benson 

The wounded bird sped on with shattered wing, 

And gained the holt, and ran a little space, 
Where briar and bracken twined a hiding-place; 
There lay and wondered at the grievous thing. 

With patient filmy eye he peeped, and heard 
Big blood-drops oozing on the fallen leaf; 

There hour by hour in uncomplaining grief 
He watched with pain, but neither cried nor stirred. 


318 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


The merry sportsmen tramped contented home, 

He heard their happy laughter die away;—• 
Across the stubble by the covert-side 
His merry comrades called at eventide; 
They breathed the fragrant air, alert and gay, 
And he was sad because his hour was come. 


NO SANCTUARY 

(An event that happened in November , 19%b) 
By Edwin Markham 

Over the hills with terror-cry, 

An eagle burst into the sky. 

Thousands of crows pursued him, filling 
The heavens with sounds of curse and killing. 
They rusht in raucous murder crowds, 
Stung by some madness of the clouds. 

Over my head there came to me 
The thunder of an upper sea. 

The noble bird in desperate hope, 

Fled to a camp upon the slope, 

Crasht down upon the men, that they 
Might keep his enemies at bay. 

It was good reasoning to suppose 
That men have higher souls than crows. 

What happened as a crowning proof 
Of how divine a thing is man? 

The men saw tragedy and ran 
To shield the bird beneath their roof. 

They scared away the murder bands, 


"BRAVES OF THE HUNT” 319 


Taking him in with happy hands. 

They brought him food and water, glad 
To soothe a fugitive, terror-mad. 

They felt the thrill of his great eyes 
That still burned with the upper skies. 
They loost him then to the airy spaces, 
To gladden upward-looking faces. 

No, no, you’re wrong, my pen! Instead, 
They got their guns and shot him dead! 
And now, in bitter shame, I know 
How little a man transcends a crow! 


THE WIDOWED EAGLE 

By Edith M. Thomas 

Out from the aerie beloved we flew, 

Now through the white, and now through the blue; 
Glided beneath us hilltop, and glen, 

River, and meadow, and dwellings of men! 

We flew, we flew through the regions of light 
And the wind’s wild pasan followed our flight! 

Free of the world, we flew, we flew— 

Bound to each other alone,—we two! 

To the shivering migrant we called, “ Adieu! ” 
Mid the frost-sweet weather, we flew, we flew! 

Till, hark from below! the hiss of lead, 

And one of us dropped, as a plume is shed! 


320 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Around and around I flew, I flew, 

Wheeling my flight, ever closer I drew! 

There, on the earth, my beloved lay, 

With a crimson stain on her breast-plumes gray! 

And creatures of earth we had scorned before, 
Now measured the wings that would lift no more: 
And I stooped, as an arrow is shot from the height, 
And sought to bear her away in my flight— 

Away to our aerie far to seek! 

Well did I fight with talons and beak; 

But the craven foe, in their numbers and might, 
Bore her in triumph out of my sight! 


THE WOUNDED HARE 

By Robert Burns 

Inhuman man! curse on thy barbarous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; 

May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart! 

—Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 


"BRAVES OF THE HUNT ” 


321 


Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 

I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 


THE BEAVER 

By Mary Howitt 

Up in the north if thou sail with me, 

A wonderful creature I’ll show to thee; 
As gentle and mild as a lamb at play,— 
Skipping about in the month of May; 

Yet wise as any old learned sage 
Who sits turning over a musty page! 

Come dow r n to the lonely river’s bank, 
See driven-in stake and riven plank; 

’Tis a mighty work before thee stands 
That would do no shame to human hands. 
A well-built dam to stem the tide 
Of this northern river so strong and wide; 
Look! the woven bough of many a tree, 
And a wall of fairest masonry. 

The waters cannot o’erpass this bound, 
For a hundred keen eyes watch it round; 
And the skill that raised can keep it good 
Against the peril of storm and flood. 

And yonder the peaceable creatures dwell, 
Secure in their watery citadel! 

They know no sorrow, have done no sin; 
Happy they live ’mong kith and kin,— 


322 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


As happy as living things can be, 

Each in the midst of his family! 

Ay, there they live, and the hunter wild 
Seeing how they were kind and good, 

Hath felt his stubborn soul subdued; 

And the very sight of their young at play 
Hath put his hunter’s heart away; 

And a mood of pity hath o’er him crept, 

As he thought of his own dear babes and wept. 


THE SNARE 
By James Stephens 

I hear a sudden cry of pain! 

There is a rabbit in a snare: 
Now I hear the cry again, 

But I cannot tell from where. 

But I cannot tell from where 
He is crying out for aid; 
Crying on the frightened air, 
Making everything afraid. 

Making everything afraid, 
Wrinkling up his little face, 
As he cries again for aid; 

And I cannot find the place. 

And I cannot find the place 
Where his paw is in the snare: 
Little one! Oh, little one! 

I am searching everywhere. 


“BRAVES OF THE HUNT " 


323 


THE DEER-TRAPPER 

By Francis Sterne Palmer 

At sight of him the birds berate; 

The blackbird points him to her mate, 
The bluejay screams a scathing word, 

Even the thrush is anger-stirred;— 
Stealthy his step by wood-path dim, 

Yet they know and jeer at him. 

His coming makes the fields less gay; 

The men who work there look away, 

No welcome, only a half-hid sneer, 

For Paul who loafs—and traps the deer! 

When night-mist softens clearings rough, 
And men who work have worked enough, 
Around the shanty doors you hear 
Laughing girls make music clear; 

Jest answers jest, heart’s cheer to heart,— 
But Paul Fineffe still keeps apart! 

Sleepin’ he dreams, and seems to hide 
Close by a spruce-tree’s shadowy side; 

A slender doe through the mosses stepped, 
Under her foot a deer-trap leapt 
And fastened on her, biting deep, 

Biting deeper at each wild leap! 

She is no stolid, brutish bear 
To crouch and wait the trapper there; 


324 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Frantic she plunges, crazed with fright, 
Bruised and broken, a piteous sight!— 

Paul sees and shudders and would away, 

But something holds him—he too must stay! 

Such day-time joy, such night-time cheer, 

For Paul Fineffe who traps the deer! 

BRAVES OF THE HUNT 

By Henry Herbert Knibbs 

Braves! that go out with your guides and gold and the 
polished tube of steel, 

Playing safe with the hunting-pack, the trap and the 
prism-glass; 

Slaying the Moose or the Silver-tip, e’en as you pause 
and kneel 

Loosing the power that ye wield for shame. . . . 

So do our monarchs pass. 

Not for the hunger of babes ye hunt; for mother or 
aged sire; 

Not to the Red Gods offering the blood of your lust 
to kill; 

Not with the strength of your brawn and thew match¬ 
ing the fury-fire 

Of the beast that fights for the life it loves; nay! but 
with sneaking skill 

Ye speed the sting of the spreading slug, giving your 
lust a name; 

Sport! to shatter the buoyant life, to sever the liver 
thread! 


BRAVES OF THE HUNT " 325 


Then ye stand with a gun in hand, grinning your pic¬ 
tured shame; 

“ See at my feet the mighty thing that I, yea, that I 
struck dead! 55 

When ye have toiled on the foot-worn trail till the 
hunger-pinch is keen; 

When ye have stood as a man with men earning your 
wage through strife 

Of the outland ways, ye have fair excuse to kill—an 
the kill be clean; 

Then, perchance, will the vaunt be lost in fostering 
life with life. 

Sport! to slay with no cause to slay—not even the 
pride of hate! 

Courage? then stand to an even chance, facing a foe- 
man’s gun 

Out in the open, eye to eye, for Honor of Kin or State, 

Oh, ye who slink in the woven blind seeking to kill— 
for fun! 

Would that ye lay by the wounded thing that crawls 
to the brush to die; 

Would that ye knew the biting pain and that linger¬ 
ing thirst of hell, 

Writhing down to the darksome pit as ye vainly im¬ 
plored the sky, 

Asking It if there once was God that made ye and 
loved ye well! 

Perhaps, when the Hand that fashioned all shall strike, 
and the earth be dumb 


326 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

Out of the dim and the voiceless vast—back to their 
own again— 

Herd and band and the mated beasts, fearless and free, 
shall come, 

Knowing naught of the ancient fear of a tribe that 
were named as men. 


THE HUNT 

By Gertrude Huntington McGiffert 

Crash and off and away together 
Over the moors and the purple heather, 

Over the moors in the golden weather! 
Huntsmen, gentlemen, hunters, all 
Loosed at last by the harbourer’s call! 

Off and away! Like a swinging lash 
Two score pitiless staghounds crash 
Out through the broom with hot fixed eyes, 

And surer and clearer and deadlier rise 
Over the hills w T here the fresh track lies. 

Hound to hound and horse to horse, 

Mile on mile through the yellow gorse, 

The scarlet coats, the bits agleam, 

The reeking flanks, the froth, the steam, 

The reddening spurs and the daring leap 
Down treacherous foothold of mountain sheep, 
Up perilous steep, from ledge to ledge, 

Around the covert and over the hedge, 

Through wooded coomb and baffling glen, 
Through glen and coomb—pack, hunters, and 
men! 



“BRAVES OF THE HUNT ” 327 


Beyond, the lordly wild red Deer, 

Gaining the cliff where the rocks fall sheer, 
Clears crag and chasm with breathless spring, 
Wheels down the wind like a bird on wing— 
Noble mile on mile with eyes on fire, 

Noble mile on mile through ooze and mire, 

Till his hide is black and his staunch limbs tire! 
At bay at last in brave defeat 
On a rocky ledge where the waters meet 
He turns on his foes with striking feet. 

He rips a hound from flank to flank, 

The stream runs red from bank to bank. 

Hound after hound he grapples and turns, 

With tossing crest he fends and spurns, 

A death-trapped knight he fends and spurns. 
Death-trapped! The white blade at his throat! 
His proud head lowers, the hot hounds gloat, 
His royal antlers are borne away, 

A stately prize—brow, bay, and tray! 

• ••••••••••# 

Had God walked over His hills to-day! 






329 













































































Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds 
Behind the iron bars. 

Where’er they turn the hand of man 
Their straining vision mars, 

Save only when at night they gaze 
Upon the friendly stars. 

In the Zoo . George T. Marsh. 


330 




IN CAPTIVITY 

AT THE ZOO 
By Israel Zangmll 

The sky is gray with rain that will not fall, 
The clayey paths are oozing ghostly mist. 
Reeking with sadness immemorial, 

The gray earth saps the courage to exist. 

Poor tropic creatures, penned in northern land, 
I, too, desire the sun and am a slave. 

My heart is with you, and I understand 
The lion turning in his living grave. 


IN THE ZOO 
By George T. Marsh 

Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds 
Behind the iron bars. 

Where’er they turn the hand of man 
Their straining vision mars, 

Save only when at night they gaze 
Upon the friendly stars. 

See! there a golden eagle broods 
With glazed, unseeing eyes 

That never more will sweep the snows 
Where blue Sierras rise; 

And there, sick for his native hills, 

A sullen panther lies. 

331 


332 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


What dreams of silent polar nights 
Disturb the white bear’s sleep? 

Roams he once more unfettered where 
Eternal ice-floes sweep? 

What memories of the jungle’s ways 
Does that gaunt tiger keep? 

Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds 
Behind the iron bars, 

For thus the ruthless hand of man 
Each God-made creature mars. 

But oh, what hungry eyes they raise 
Up to the friendly stars l 


TO A CAGED LION 

By Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance 
Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time, 

And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread 

Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime;— 
Fettered by things that shudder at thy roar, 

Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace this narrow floor! 

Thou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk 
Before the thunders of thine awful wrath; 

The steel-armed hunter viewed thee from afar, 

Fearless and trackless in thy lonely path! 

The famished tiger closed his flaming eye, 

And crouched and panted as thy step went by! 


IN CAPTIVITY 


333 


Thou art the vanquished, and insulting man 
Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow’s wing; 

His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind, 

And lead in chains the desert’s fallen king. 

Are these the beings that have dared to tw T ine 
Their feeble threads around those limbs of thine? 

So must it be; the weaker, wiser race, 

That wields the tempest and that rides the sea, 
Even in the stillness of thy solitude 

Must teach the lesson of its pow r er to thee; 

And thou, the terror of the trembling wild, 

Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child! 

THE DROMEDARY 
By A. Y. Campbell 

In dreams I see the Dromedary still, 

As once in a gay park I saw him stand: 

A thousand eyes in vulgar wonder scanned 
His humps and hairy neck, and gazed their fill 
At his lank shanks and mocked with laughter shrill. 
He never moved: and if his Eastern land 
Flashed on his eye with stretches of hot sand, 

It wrung no mute appeal from his proud will. 

He blinked upon the rabble lazily; 

And still some trace of majesty forlorn 
And a coarse grace remained: his head was high, 
Though his gaunt flanks with a great mange were 
w r orn: 

There was not any yearning in his eye, 

But on his lips and nostril infinite scorn. 


334 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE CAPTIVE POLAR BEAR 

By Stephen Gwynn 

His dam lay, powerless now to help, 
White fur on snow with one red stain; 

A sailor caught the snarling whelp, 

Who never swam the seas again. 

Huge now, he lies behind the bars, 
Stretches, and gapes, and idly rolls: 

Too soft to face the winds and stars 
That freeze above the icy poles. 

Mangy and yellow-toothed and old 
He lies, and lolls an inky tongue; 

Yet in his brain’s most inward fold 

Still lives the world where he was young. 

For still he keeps the sharp fish-head, 

The sloping shoulder, the round limbs, 

To cleave the water, for the dread 
Of all that by the icefield swims. 

Still upon keen, clear frosty days 
There comes a stirring in his blood, 

Inklings of his forefathers’ ways, 

Of prey and battle in the flood. 

He scents the blood of what they slew, 

He dreams, what he can never feel, 

How the snatched salmon quivers through, 
And how they tore the oily seal. 


335 


IN CAPTIVITY 

Forward and backward, like the tide, 

With ceaseless motion shambling slow, 

He sways himself from side to side, 

As if he rode the rocking floe. 

Or in his tank—how cramped and small 
After wide waters of the pole! 
Contemptuously from wall to wall 
He surges with great wallowing roll. 

He loves no keeper’s hand; cold rage 
Haunts him for ever in his cell; 

Thus far he keeps his heritage, 

Tameless and unapproachable. 

A JAPANESE SONG 
The Heart of a Bird 
By Dorothea MacKellar 

What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird? 

There was a bird in a cage of gold, a small red bird 
in a cage of gold; 

The sun shone through the bars of the cage, out of 
the w ide heaven; 

The depths of the sky w r ere soft and blue, greatly to be 
longed for. 

The bird sang for desire of the sky, and her feathers 
shone redder for sorrow; 

And many passed in the street below, and they said one 
to another: 

“ Ah, that w r e had hearts as light as a bird’s! ” 

But what does the passer-by know of the heart of a bird? 


336 POETRY'S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird? 

“ I have given grain for you to eat and water that you 
may bathe.” 

Shall not this bird be content? is there need to clip 
her wings? 

No, for her cage is very strong, the golden bars are 
set close; 

Yet the real bird has flown away, very far away over 
the rice-fields; 

There is only the shadow-body in the cage. 

What does the bird-seller care for the heart of the bird?, 

THE CAPTURED EAGLE 

By Janet Gargan 

He broods upon the highest perch 
Within the wire-encircled run— 

And motionless, his fierce eyes search 
The dazzling glory of the sun; 

He deigns no glance at curious crowds— 

Their speech comes like the muffled roar 
Below the sea cliffs wreathed in clouds, 

Far on a bleak and icy shore. 

There was his nest, and from its height 
He watched, majestic as a king— 

The sun could blind not with its light, 

Nor feared he any living thing; 

A life in glorious freedom spent, 

To feed the eaglets all his care— 

But here he sickens, prison-pent, 

Untamed, though, in his fierce despair. 


IN CAPTIVITY 


337 


TO A CAPTIVE CRANE 
By Hamlin Garland 

Ho, brother! Art thou prisoned too? 

Is thy heart hot with restless pain? 

I heard the call thy bugle blew 

Here by the bleak and chilling main 
(Whilst round me shaven parks are spread 
And cindered drives wind on and on) ; 
And at thy cry, thy lifted head, 

My gladdened heart was westward drawn. 

O splendid bird! your trumpet brings 
To my lone heart the prairie springs. 


From “ THE MANCIPLE’S TALE ” 

By Geoffrey Chaucer 

Take any brid, and put it in a cage, 

And do all thin entente, and thy corage, 

To foster it tendrely with mete and drinke 
Of alle deintees that thou canst bethinke, 
And kepe it al so clenely as thou may; 
Although the cage of gold be never so gay, 
Yet had this brid, by twenty thousand fold, 
Lever in a forest, that is wilde and cold, 

Gon eten wormes, and swiche wretchednesse. 
For ever this brid will don his besinesse 
To escape out of his cage whan that he may: 
His liberty the brid desireth ay. 


338 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE CAGE 

By James Stephens 

It tried to get from out the cage; 
Here and there it ran, and tried 
At the edges and the side, 

In a busy, timid rage. 

Trying yet to find the key 
Into freedom, trying yet, 

In a timid rage, to get 
To its old tranquillity. 

It did not know, it did not see, 

It did not turn an eye, or care 
That a man was watching there 
While it raged so timidly. 

It ran without a sound, it tried, 

In a busy, timid rage, 

To escape from out the cage 
By the edges and the side. 


CAGED 

By Grace Denio Litchfield 

It was born behind bars, but it knew it had wings, 
And it felt God had meant it for happier things; 
And it sang of the joys that it never had known— 
Of fetterless flights over fields flower-strown: 

Of the green of the forest and gold of the wheat: 


339 


IN CAPTIVITY 

Of the thrill of the tree-top, just touched by its feet: 
Of the feel of a lily-leaf, brushed by its breast, 

And the splash of a raindrop, caught on its crest. 

It sang of the beauty, the rapture of flying, 

The palpitant air to its heart-beats replying, 

Naught over, naught under, save limitless blue 
And the music of wing-strokes, rhythmic and true. 

It sang, and men said that its song was good; 

But not one understood. 

They then brought in a wild bird, entrapped in a snare, 
And a day and a night held it prisoner there. 

And a night and a day, unbelieving, distraught, 

With impassible fate for its freedom it fought, 

Though it bled at the breast blindly beating the bars 
As if strength of desire should force way to the stars. 
And men pitied, and said: It was free its life long; 
Who could bid it endure but a day of such wrong? 
And they flung wide the door, and the bird, flashing 
through, 

Swept aw r ay, like a leaf in a gale, from their view. 

Then the other, behind the closed bars of its fate, 
Once again sang its heart out—its need, co-create, 

Of the Broad and the Boundless. In passionate song 
It besought men to right for one day its life’s wrong— 
To bestow for a day, or for one only hour, 

The leave to make proof of its God-given power; 

For one hour only to float on free wings 
In the world where its soul lived—the world of best 
things, 

Of commensurate effort and gain, of desire, 

Unlinked from despair, mounting higher and higher 


340 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Till lost in attainment—the world of clear visions, 
True measures, high aims, and untrammelled decisions— 
The world God had made it for. So its song rose, 
Ecstatic, tumultuous, thrilled with wild woes 
And delicious complainings, until the last note 
Broke off in an exquisite cry in its throat.— 

And men listened, and said that the song was good. 

But not one understood. 


TO A LINNET IN A CAGE 
By Francis Ledmdge 

When Spring is in the fields that stained your wing, 
And the blue distance is alive with song, 

And finny quiets of the gabbling spring 
Rock lilies red and long, 

At dewy daybreak, I will set you free 
In ferny turnings of the woodbine lane, 

Where faint-voiced echoes leave and cross in glee 
The hilly swollen plain. 


In draughty houses you forget your tune, 
The modulator of the changing hours, 
You want the wide air of the moody noon, 
And the slanting evening showers. 

So I will loose you, and your song shall fall 
When morn is white upon the dewy pane, 
Across my eyelids, and my soul recall 
From worlds of sleeping pain. 


IN CAPTIVITY 


341 


THE SKY-LARK CAGED 
By Alfred Noyes 

I 

Beat, little breast, against the wires, 

Strive, little wings and misted eyes 
Which one wild gleam of memory fires 
Beseeching still the unfettered skies, 

Whither at dewy dawn you sprang 
Quivering with joy from this dark earth and 
sang. 


II 

And still you sing—your narrow cage 
Shall set at least your music free! 

Its rapturous wings in glorious rage 
Mount and are lost in liberty, 

While those who caged you creep on earth 
Blind prisoners from the hour that gave them 
birth. 


Ill 

Sing! The great City surges round. 

Blinded with light, thou canst not know. 
Dream! ’Tis the fir-w oods’ windy sound 
Rolling a psalm of praise below. 

Sing, o’er the bitter dust and shame, 

And touch us with thine ow T n transcendent flame. 


342 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


IV 

Sing, o’er the City dust and slime; 

Sing, o’er the squalor and the gold, 

The greed that darkens earth with crime, 

The spirits that are bought and sold. 

O, shower the healing notes like rain, 

And lift us to the height of grief again. 

V 

Sing! The same music swells your breast, 

And the wild notes are still as sweet 
As when above the fragrant nest 

And the wide billowing fields of wheat 
You soared and sang the livelong day, 

And in the light of heaven dissolved away. 

VI 

The light of heaven! Is it not here? 

One rapture, one ecstatic joy, 

One passion, one sublime despair, 

One grief which nothing can destroy, 

You—though your dying eyes are wet 
Remember, ’tis our blunted hearts forget. 

VII 

Beat, little breast, still beat, still beat, 

Strive, misted eyes and tremulous wings; 
Swell, little throat, your Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! 

Thro’ which such deathless memory rings: 
Better to break your heart and die, 

Than, like your gaolers, to forget your sky. 


IN CAPTIVITY 


343 


MOTHER CAREY’S CHICKEN 
By Theodore Watts-Dunton 

I cannot brook thy gaze, beloved bird; 

That sorrow is more than human in thine eye; 

Too deeply, brother, is my spirit stirr’d 

To see thee here, beneath the landsmen’s sky, 

Coop’d in a cage with food thou canst not eat, 

Thy 44 snow-flake ” soil’d, and soil’d those conquering 
feet 

That walk’d the billows, while thy 44 sweet-sweet-sweet ” 
Proclaim’d the tempest nigh. 

Bird whom I welcomed while the sailors cursed, 
Friend whom I bless’d wherever keels may roam, 
Prince of my childish dreams, whom mermaids nursed 
In purple of billows—silver of ocean-foam, 

Abash’d I stand before the mighty grief 
That quells all other: Sorrow’s King and Chief, 

Who rides the wind and holds the sea in fief, 

Then finds a cage for home! 

From out thy jail thou seest yon heath and woods, 
But canst thou hear the birds or smell the flowers? 
Ah, no! those rain-drops twinkling on the buds 
Bring only visions of the salt sea-showers. 

44 The sea! ” the linnets pipe from hedge and heath; 

44 The sea! ” the honeysuckles whisper and breathe, 
And tumbling waves, where those wild-roses wreathe, 
Murmur from inland bowers. 


344 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

These winds so soft to others—how they burn! 

The mavis sings with gurgle and ripple and plash, 
To thee yon swallow seems a wheeling tern; 

And when the rain recalls the briny lash, 

Old Ocean’s kiss we love—oh, when thy sight 
Is mocked with Ocean’s horses—manes of white, 

The long and shadowy flanks, the shoulders bright—• 
Bright as the lightning’s flash— 

When all these scents of heather and brier and whin, 
All kindly breaths of land-shrub, flower, and vine, 
Recall the sea-scents, till thy feather’d skin 
Tingles in answer to a dream of brine— 

When thou, remembering there thy royal birth, 

Dost see between the bars a world of dearth, 

Is there a grief—a grief on all the earth— 

So heavy and dark as thine? 

But I can buy thy freedom—I (Thank God!), 

Who loved thee more than albatross or gull— 

Loved thee, and loved the waves thy footsteps trod— 
Dream’d of thee when, becalm’d, we lay a-hull— 
’Tis I, thy friend, who once, a child of six, 

To find where Mother Carey fed her chicks, 

Climb’d up the boat and then with bramble sticks 
Tried all in vain to scull— 

Thy friend who shared thy Paradise of Storm— 

The little dreamer of the cliffs and coves, 

Who knew thy mother, saw her shadowy form 
Behind the cloudy bastions where she moves, 

And heard her call: “Come! for the welkin thickens, 





IN CAPTIVITY 


345 


And tempests mutter and the lightning quickens! ” 
Then, starting from his dream, would find the chickens 
Were daws or blue rock-doves— 

Thy friend who owned another Paradise, 

Of calmer air, a floating isle of fruit, 

Where sang the Nereids on a breeze of spice, 

While Triton, from afar, would sound salute: 

There wast thou winging, though the skies were calm; 
For marvellous strains, as of the morning’s shalm, 
Were struck by ripples round that isle of palm 
Whose shores were Ocean’s lute. 

And now to see thee here, my king, my king, 
Far-glittering memories mirror’d in those eyes, 

As if there shone within each iris-ring 

An orbed world—ocean and hills and skies!— 

Those black wings ruffled whose triumphant sweep 
Conquer’d in sport!—yea, up the glimmering steep 
Of highest billow, down the deepest deep, 

Sported with victories !— 

To see thee here!—a coil of wilted weeds 

Beneath those feet that danced on diamond spray, 
Rider of sportive Ocean’s reinless steeds— 

Winner in Mother Carey’s Sabbath-fray 
When, stung by magic of the Witch’s chant, 

They rise, each foamy-crested combatant— 

They rise and fall and leap and foam and gallop and 
pant 

Till albatross, sea-swallow, and cormorant 
Must flee like doves away! 




346 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

And shalt thou ride no more where thou hast ridden, 
And feast no more in hyaline halls and caves, 

Master of Mother Carey’s secrets hidden, 

Master and monarch of the wind and waves, 

Who never, save in stress of angriest blast, 

Ask’d ship for shelter—never till at last 
The foam-flakes hurled against the sloping mast 
Slash’d thee like whirling glaives ? 

Right home to fields no seamew r ever kenn’d, 

Where scarce the great sea-w r anderer fares wfith thee, 
I come to take thee—nay, ’tis I, thy friend! 

Ah, tremble not—I come to set thee free; 

I come to tear this cage from off this w r all, 

And take thee hence to that fierce festival 
Where billows march and winds are musical, 

Hymning the Victor-Sea! 


Yea, lift thine eyes to mine. Dost know me now r ? 
Thou’rt free! thou’rt free! Ah, surely a bird can 
smile! 

Dost know me, Petrel? Dost remember how 
I fed thee in the v r ake for many a mile, 

Whilst thou wouldst pat the waves, then, rising, take 
The morsel up and wheel about the wake? 

Thou’rt free, thou’rt free, but for thine own dear sake 
I keep thee caged awhile. 

Away to sea! no matter where the coast: 

The road that turns for home turns never wrong; 
Where waves run high my bird will not be lost: 

His home I know: ’tis where the winds are strong— 
Where, on a throne of billows, rolling hoary 




IN CAPTIVITY 


347 


And green and blue and splash’d with sunny glory, 
Far, far from shore—from farthest promontory— 
Prophetic Nature bares the secret of the story 
That holds the spheres in song! 

THE CAGED SQUIRREL 
By Janet Gargan 

As ’round and ’round he spins the wheel 
Within his cage of woven wires, 

What haunting memories may steal 
Across his heart—of forest spires, 

Of mossy banks, of bubbling springs 
That trickle from the fern-grown glades; 
Of happy furred and feathered things 
Within the silent, cloistered shades. 

And thus when cold eyes ofttimes stare 
To watch his flashing, agile dart, 

His treadmill ’round, then like a flare 
Of beating drums, his timid heart 
Will urge him on and on; perhaps, 

This cage is but a dream that holds, 

And he will wake to tree-trunk gaps 
And stores of nuts in mossy folds. 

An evil dream that clutches tight 
And prisons in a tiny space, 

Where falls no golden, dusky light 

That softly sifts through leafy lace— 
Where are no great branched trees to run, 
No ripened nuts to fill his bin, 

Nor singing birds to greet the sun— 

Only a wheel that he must spin. 






















349 

































































Their cause I plead,—plead it in heart and mind; 
A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind. 

David Garrick. 

Prologue on Quitting the Stage in 1776. 


350 



PERFORMING ANIMALS 

BABOON 

By Charles Hanson Towne 

At eight o’clock in the evening, 

And at two in the afternoon 
The monster curtains open, 

The fiddles creak and croon; 

And then I bow to the people— 

A lumbering baboon. 

I wonder why I do it? 

Why do the humans stare 
From even rows of shadow 
Behind the footlights’ glare? 

Why do I go through my weary tricks 
On a table and a chair? 

They laugh and clap and giggle, 

They never seem to tire, 

For I am quite amusing 
As I dance upon a wire, 

Or leap, at my master’s signal, 
Through golden hoops of fire. 

I cannot smile, like the people, 

I cannot speak at all; 

I pirouette insanely 
In the foolish carnival; 

Yet could I laugh, oh, I would laugh 
When the velvet curtains fall! 

351 


352 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


For I wonder why those people 
Sit in such even rows, 

And smile at my useless knowledge, 
Laugh at my mincing toes, 

And dream that they have wisdom!— 
How little a human knows! 

And why do they always gather 
In houses bright and hot, 

When they might be out in the open 
In a place I’ve never forgot? 

Why do they live in a shell like this, 
And bid me share their lot? 

And why is my life a schedule, 

Run by rote and rule? 

I was not meant for theaters, 

I was not made for school; 

I was not meant to caper here, 

A thing of ridicule! 

I was not meant to be the slave 
Of a man in a shiny suit, 

Or bring the golden dollars in, 

To stand up and salute; 

The good God put me in the world 
To be a happy brute! 

But at eight o’clock each evening, 
And at two in the afternoon 

The monster curtains open, 

The fiddles creak and croon ; 

And I bow to the senseless people— 
A sensible baboon! 


PERFORMING ANIMALS 


353 


LITTLE DOG OF AMUSEMENT ZOO 
By Alice Jean Cleat or 

Little dog of amusement zoo, 

Who looks with quivering lips at you? 

Instead they laugh at your tricks and say: 

“ Well, how do they learn ’em anyway? ” 

“ How do they learn ’em? ” O let me tell, 

Hot irons, wire whips, and a life of hell! 

We say they are “ learned.” They are clubbed and 
gripped 

And dragged and tortured and choked and whipped. 
Behind the scenes they are ruled by Fear. 

A “ rehearsal hour ” would you care to hear? 

“ How do they learn ’em? ” By pain, I say, 
Whose cries would haunt you for many a day. 
Who is to blame that these things are so? 
Managers, trainers, and you zvlio go! 

Decree, O statutes, with righteous scorn 
A stop to “ pleasures ” of torture born. 

Then no more tricks for all such as you, 

Little dog of amusement zoo! 

TIGERS 

By Louise Morgan Sill 

I saw eight royal tigers in a ring 

Barred round with iron like a monstrous cage, 
And in the midst a man, a puny thing, 

With whip, pole, pistol shot defied their rage. 


354 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Their golden bodies, like the cage black-barred, 
Were lithe as houris in a paradise, 

With sneering nose and snarling lips to guard 
The deathless fire of hatred in their eyes. 

And for their righteous hate I loved them. Power 
Had violated, mangled—to its shame— 
Unconquerable beings for an hour. 

My spirit joined with theirs as flame to flame. 

God-made they were. Let man respect their right! 

God-taught were they to love their freedom so. 
And, tragic puppets, prisoners of might, 

They were unchanged as water in its flow. 

Whatever force may be in love or hate, 

The soul is scarless, and resists forever, 

Man’s soul is like the tiger soul, its mate, 

That may be trapped and bent, but broken never. 







355 








































































The wolf also shall dwell with the Iamb, and the 
leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the 
young lion and the fatling together; and a little child 
shall lead them. 

Isaiah 11 : 6 . 


356 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


LITTLE FRIENDS IN FAIRYLAND 
By Edith M. Thomas 

When I was a child I used to roam 
In wonderful regions, though near at home; 
For I feigned that the Queen of Fairyland 
Made me a Knight, by the stroke of her wand— 
A Knight whose mission it was to seek 
And rescue the captive and the weak, 
Wherever I found them in her domain, 

Bind up their wounds and relieve their pain! 


Now the cat, that under the trumpet-vine lay 
Was a tiger that crouched for a royal prey; 
For the humming-bird, with his ruby gem, 
Was heir to a fairy diadem! 

So I drove Grimalkin far away, 

And the bird flew back to his mother fay. 


If a fly was caught in a net of gauze, 
The spider a wicked enchanter was; 

So I broke the net, and the fly went free; 
But if ever the spider I chanced to see 
Adrift on the stream—a luckless rover— 
With a leaf for a raft, I helped him over! 

357 


358 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

If a honey-bee fell by the way, overladen, 

I saw in her a patient maiden, 

One of the toilers that gather nectar 
For my Queen and her Court, so I must protect 
her! 

So I made a staff of a stem of grass, 

And helped to her feet the fairy lass! 

If I met a tortoise, clumsy and slow, 

I took him along where he wished to go. 

If a merry hopper by chance was lamed, 

If a grig b} f some careless foot was maimed, 

A litter of leaves I quickly made, 

And carried the sufferer into the shade. 

So I travelled abroad, the long summer days, 

In the wonderful realm of the Queen of Fays. 
Though I never came yet to the Court of the 
Queen, 

I have heard her voice, her smile I have seen! 

Her voice, in the whispering leaves, I have heard, 
In the hum of insect and twitter of bird; 

And her smile with the sunny landscape blends, 
And all of her subjects are my true friends. 


NURSERY RHYMES 

I had a little pony, 

His name was Dapple-grey 
I lent him to a ladv, 

To ride a mile away. 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


359 


She whipped him, she slashed him, 
She rode him through the mire; 
I would not lend my pony now 

For all the lady’s hire. 

•/ 


A man went a-hunting at Reigate, 
And wished to leap over a high gate; 
Says the owner, “ Go round, 

With your gun and your hound, 

For you never shall leap over my gate.” 


Shoe the horse, and shoe the mare; 
Rut let the little colt go bare. 


Come hither, sweet Robin, 

And be not afraid, 

I would not hurt even a feather; 
Come hither, sweet Robin, 

And pick up some bread, 

To feed you this very cold weather. 


I don’t mean to frighten you, 

Poor little thing, 

And pussy-cat is not behind me; 

So hop about pretty, 

And drop down your wing, 

And pick up some crumbs, and don’t mind 


me. 





360 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


There came to my window, 
One morning in spring, 
A sweet little robin; 

It came there to sing. 
And the tune that it sang 
Was prettier far 
Than ever I heard 
On flute or guitar. 


Mary had a little lamb, 

Its fleece w r as white as snow; 

And everywhere that Mary went, 

The lamb was sure to go. 

He followed her to school one day, 
Which was against the rule; 

It made the children laugh and play 
To see a lamb at school. 

And so the teacher turned him out, 

But still he lingered near, 

And waited patiently about 
Till Mary did appear. 

Then he ran to her, and laid 
His head upon her arm, 

As if he said, “ I’m not afraid— 

You’ll keep me from all harm.” 

“ What makes the lamb love Mary so? ” 
The eager children cried. 

“ Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,” 
The teacher quick replied. 



FOB THE CHILDREN 


361 


And you each gentle animal 
In confidence may bind, 

And make them follow at your will, 

If you are only kind. 

I had a little Doggy that used to sit and beg; 

But Doggy tumbled down the stairs and broke his 
little leg. 

Oh! Doggy, I will nurse you, and try to make you well, 

And you shall have a collar with a little silver bell. 

Ah! Doggy, don’t you think that you should very 
faithful be, 

For having such a loving friend to comfort you as me? 

And when your leg is better, and you can run and play, 

We’ll have a scamper in the fields and see them making 
hay. 

But, Doggy, you must promise (And mind your word 
you keep) 

Not once to tease the little lambs, or run among the 
sheep; 

And then the little yellow chicks that play upon the 
grass, 

You must not even wag your tail to scare them as you 
pass. 

A QUESTION 

By Fairmont Snyder 

When you go to get a drink, 

Do you ever stop to think, 

That dogs and cats, and squirrels, too, 

Get just as thirsty, dear, as you? 



362 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


They cannot turn a faucet,—so— 
All parched and thirsty they must go. 
Oh, did you ever stop to think, 

They cannot ASK you for a drink? 


THE WISTFUL WAIF 

By Fairmont Snyder 

Edward found a homeless dog 
Out on Lonesome street, 

Edward took it home with him 
And gave it food to eat. 

Quite unhappy seemed the dog— 

It whined and sadly fretted; 

All that ailed that poor dog was— 
It wanted to be petted! 


THE PETS’ CHRISTMAS CAROL 

By Winifred Sackville Stoner 
('Countess de Bruchc) 

44 Tweet-tweet-tweet ! ” sang the canary, 
Which meant that he was very merry 
Because his little mistress Nell 
On Christmas eve had fed him well. 

44 Bow-wow-wow! ” sang the gay young pup, 
44 My master’s gone av r ay to sup, 

But though he won’t be here for tea, 

Just see the meal he left for me! ” 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


363 


“ Mew-mew-mew! ” sang the mama cat, 
“ Such milk as this will make me fat, 
And I am feeling very gay 
This cold and frosty Christmas Day.” 


THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER 

By William Blake 

A Robin Redbreast in a cage 
Puts all Heaven in a rage. 

A skylark wounded on the wing 
Doth make a cherub cease to sing. 

Pie who shall hurt the little wren 
Shall never be beloved by men. 


KINDNESS TO ANIMALS 

Anonymous 

Little children, never give 

Pain to things that feel and live: 

Let the gentle robin come 

For the crumbs }mu save at home,— 

As his meat you throw along 

He’ll repay you with a song; 

Never hurt the timid hare 
Peeping from her green grass lair, 
Let her come and sport and play 
On the lawn at close of day; 


I- 

3G4 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

The little lark goes soaring high 
To the bright windows of the sky, 
Singing as if ’twere always spring, 

And fluttering on an untired wing,— 

Oh! let him sing his happy song, 

Nor do these gentle creatures wrong. 


HIAWATHA’S CHICKENS 
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene’er he met them, 
Called them “ Hiawatha’s Chickens.” 


HIAWATHA’S BROTHERS 

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellozv 

Of all beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 

Why the rabbit was so timid, 

Talked with them whene’er he met them, 
Called them “ Hiawatha’s Brothers.” 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


365 


LITTLE GUSTAVA 

By Celia Tliaxter 

Little Gustava sits in the sun, 

Safe in the porch, and the little drops run 
From the icicles under the eaves so fast. 

For the bright spring sun shines warm at last, 

And glad is little Gustava. 

She wears a quaint little scarlet cap, 

And a little green bowl she holds in her lap, 

Filled with bread and milk to the brim, 

And a wreath of marigold round the rim: 

44 Ha! ha! ” laughs little Gustava. 

Up comes her little gray coaxing cat 
With her little pink nose, and she mews, 44 What’s 
that? ” 

Gustava feeds her,—she begs for more; 

And a little brown hen walks in at the door: 

44 Good day! ” cries little Gustava. 

She scatters crumbs for the little brown hen. 
There comes a rush and a flutter, and then 
Down fly her little white doves so sweet, 

With their snowy wings and crimson feet: 

44 Welcome! ” cries little Gustava. 

So dainty and eager they pick up the crumbs. 

But who is this through the doorway comes? 

Little Scotch terrier, little dog Rags, 

Looks in her face, and his funny tail wags: 

44 Ha! ha! ” laughs little Gustava. 


366 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


“ You want some breakfast, too? ” and down 
She sets her bowl on the brick floor brown; 

And little dog Rags drinks up her milk, 

While she strokes his shaggy locks, like silk; 

“ Dear Rags! ” says little Gustava. 

Waiting without stood sparrow and crow, 

Cooling their feet in the melting snow; 

“ Won’t you come in, good folk? ” she cried. 

But they were too bashful, and stood outside, 

Though “ Pray come in! ” cried little Gustava. 

So the last she threw them, and knelt on the mat 
With doves and biddy and dog and cat. 

And her mother came to the open house-door: 

“ Dear little daughter, I bring you some more. 

My merry little Gustava! ” 

Kitty and terrier, biddy and doves, 

All things harmless Gustava loves. 

The shy, kind creatures ’tis joy to feed, 

And oh, her breakfast is sweet indeed 
To happy little Gustava! 


NATURE’S FRIEND 
By William H. Davies 

Say what you like, 

All things love me! 
I pick no flowers— 
That wins the Bee. 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


The Summer’s Moths 
Think my hand one— 
To touch their wings— 
With Wind and Sun. 


The garden Mouse 
Comes near to play; 
Indeed, he turns 
His eyes away. 


The Wren knows well 
I rob no nest; 
When I look in, 

She still will rest. 


The hedge stops Cows. 

Or they would come 
After my voice 

Right to my home. 


The Horse can tell, 
Straight from my lip, 
My hand could not 
Hold any whip. 


Say what you like, 

All things love me! 
Horse, Cow, and Mouse, 
Bird, Moth, and Bee. 


368 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

DINAH 

By Norman Gale 

Our Dinah is a Persian cat 
Too beautiful for words! 

She wears about her neck a bell 
To warn the garden-birds. 

Her eyes are blue as thrushes’ eggs, 

Her coat is brown as cloves, 

And when she’s wakeful, in my lap 
She kneads her little loaves. 

If you could see how diligent 
Her paws are when they knead, 

You’d think she had at least a score 
Of kittycats to feed. 

And often, lying in my lap, 

So velvety and still, 

With steadiness she grinds and grinds 
A little coffee-mill. 

To hear the lovely miller grind, 

To watch her knead, is sw eet; 

It makes me want to pick her up 
To kiss her face and feet. 

I love her sleeping in the sun, 

A hot and silky bale; 

I love her when she tries to pounce 
Upon her shadow’s tail. 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


369 


I’d rather have her for my pet 
Than guinea-pigs or birds; 

For Dinah is a Persian cat 
Too beautiful for words! 

I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY 
By Jane Taylor 

I like little Pussy, 

Her coat is so warm; 

And if I don’t hurt her 
She’ll do me no harm. 

So I’ll not pull her tail, 

Nor drive her away, 

But Pussy and I 

Very gently will play; 

She shall sit by my side, 

And I’ll give her some food; 
And she’ll love me because 
I am gentle and good. 

I’ll pat little Pussy, 

And then she will purr, 

And thus show her thanks 
For my kindness to her; 

I’ll not pinch her ears, 

Nor tread on her paw, 

Lest I should provoke her 
To use her sharp claw; 

I never will vex her, 

Nor make her displeased, 
For Pussy can’t bear 
To be worried or teased. 


370 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE GRAY KITTEN 

By Jane Campbell 

A homeless little kitten 

Came to the door one day, 

“ I’m cold and starved, oh, let me in! ” 

Its sad cries seemed to say. 

%/ 

I took it up and shut the door 
Upon the bitter storm, 

And put the little shiv’ring thing 
Before the fire to warm. 

I gave it milk to drink, and smoothed 
Its pretty, soft gray fur, 

“ Poor pussy, stay with me,” I said. 
It answered with a purr. 

And ever since that winter day 
I have so happy been; 

I gained a merry playmate when 
I let my pussy in. 

’F I WAS ER HORSE! 

By Burges Johnson 

’F I was er horse I’d hate t’ wear 
A collar what didn’t fit, 

An’ blinder-things, an’ I wouldn’t care 
To chew on a iron bit. 

It ain’t a way ’at I’d wanter live, 

To just go everywhere I was driv. 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


371 


’F I was er horse, I guess you’d see 
I’d run away pretty quick! 

I’d tear my harness an’ wriggle free 
An’ go where th’ grass was thick. 

I’d kick my heels, an’ I’d neigh fer joy, 
But I ain’t er horse, I’m er little boy! 

THE COW 

By Robert Louis Stevenson 

The friendly cow all red and white, 

I love with all my heart; 

She gives me cream with all her might, 
To eat with apple-tart. 

She wanders lowing here and there, 
And yet she cannot stray, 

All in the pleasant open air, 

The pleasant light of day; 

And blown by all the winds that pass 
And wet with all the showers, 

She walks among the meadow grass 
And eats the meadow flowers. 


THE LAMB 
By William Blake 

Little Lamb, who made thee? 
Dost thou know who made thee? 
Gave thee life and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o’er the mead; 


372 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice: 
Little Lamb, who made thee? 
Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee! 

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee. 

He is called by thy name, 

For He calls Himself a Lamb:— 
He is meek, and He is mild; 

He became a little child: 

I, a child, and thou, a lamb, 

We are called by His name. 

Little Lamb, God bless thee; 
Little Lamb, God bless thee. 


THE BEST FRIEND 

By Norman Gale 

My Daddy is the truest friend 
The birds have anywhere; 

If swimming on the beamy lake 
Or flying in the air. 

He knows their beaks and wings and tails, 
Their topknots and their legs, 

And how they make with clever bills 
The cups to hold the eggs. 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


373 


And sometimes when he sees a nook 
Of safety in the quick 
He says that he should build a home 
Just there, if he were Dick! 

He gently peeps, and sure enough 
He very often spies 
A mother looking straight at him 
With rather worried eyes. 

Thus every summer Daddy knows 
A thousand nests, or more, 
Among the lanes, upon the hills, 
And all along the shore. 

He tells me where the chaffinch hides 
Away from all his foes 
The lovely cottage that he built 
So quickly ’with his nose! 

He never shoots; he never steals 
The babies or the eggs, 

And never uses sticky stuff 
To worry little legs. 

He even throws a kiss to birds 
Assembled overhead 
To gossip for a little while 
Before they go to bed; 

And when they start for Africa, 
And other foreign lands, 

My Daddy watches from a hill 
The Hitter-flutter bands. 


374 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


He hates to lose them, but he knows 
The Spring will come again 
And toss a thousand thousand dears 
To field and wood and lane. 

My Daddy is the closest friend 
The birds have anywhere; 

If swimming on the beamy lake 
Or twittering in the air. 


TIT FOR TAT 

By Walter de la Mare 

Have you been catching of fish, Tom Noddy? 

Have you snared a weeping hare? 

Have you whistled, “No Nunny,” and gunned a poor 
bunny, 

Or a blinded bird of the air? 

Have you trod like a murderer through the green 
woods, 

Through the dewy deep dingles and glooms, 
While every small creature screamed shrill to Dame 
Nature, 

“ He comes—and he comes! ” ? 

Wonder I very much do, Tom Noddy, 

If ever, when you are a-roam, 

An Ogre from space will stoop a lean face, 

And lug you home: 


375 


FOR THE CHILDREN 

Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy, 

Of thorn-stocks nine yards high, 

With your bent knees strung around his old iron gun 
And your head dan-dangling by: 


And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy, 
From a stone-cold pantry shelf, 

Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare, 
Till you are cooked yourself! 


THE BLUE-TIT 
By Norman Gale 

He is nothing but a blue-tit, 

Just a bright and fluffy blue-tit, 

And he comes to peck my suet half a hundred 
times a day. 

If he makes me mope or grumble 
’Tis because he will not tumble 
In my pinafore, and stop with me to whistle or 
to play. 


He is hanging noddle downward, 

With his velvet noddle downward, 

And is staring at a sparrow that has found a 
crumb of bread. 

I can guess what he is jotting 
In the tiny brain that’s plotting 
How to drive away the sparrow and to eat the 
crumb instead! 


376 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

As I watch him in the ivy, 

Soft as leaf upon the ivy, 

I am sorry that his mother cannot give him 
sweets and toys. 

If he wore a little pocket 
I suppose he wouldn’t stock it 
Full of sugar-plums and lollipops, like happy 
girls and boys. 

He is nothing but a blue-tit, 

Just a shy and silky blue-tit, 

And I love to watch his antics half a hundred 
times a day. 

If he makes me sigh or grumble 
’Tis because he will not tumble 
In my pinafore, and stop with me to whistle or 
to play! 

IF EVER I SEE 

i 

By Lydia Maria Child 

If ever I see, 

On bush or tree, 

Young birds in their pretty nest, 

I must not in play, 

Steal the birds away, 

To grieve their mother’s breast. 

My mother, I know, 

Would sorrow so, 

Should I be stolen away; 

So I’ll speak to the birds 
In my softest words, 

Nor hurt them in my play. 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


377 


And when they can fly 
In the bright blue sky, 

They’ll warble a song to me; 

And then if I’m sad 
It will make me glad 
To think they are happy and free. 

THE BROWN THRUSH 

By Lucy Larcom 

There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. 
He’s singing to me! He’s singing to me! 

And w r hat does he say, little girl, little boy? 

“Oh, the w r orld’s running over with joy! 

Don’t you hear? Don’t you see? 

Hush! Look! In my tree, 

I’m as happy as happy can be! ” 

And the brown thrush keeps singing, “ A nest do 

you see 

And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree? 

Don’t meddle! Don’t touch! little girl, little boy, 
Or the world will lose some of its joy! 

Now I’m glad! now I’m free! 

And I always shall be, 

If you never bring sorrow to me.” 

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, 
To you and to me, to you and to me; 

And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, 

“ Oh, the world’s running over with joy! 

But long it won’t be, 

Don’t you know? Don’t you see? 

Unless we’re as good as can be.” 


378 POETRY 3 S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


THE SNOW-BIRD 
By Frank Dempster Sherman 

When all the ground with snow is white, 
The merry snow-bird comes, 

And hops about with great delight 
To find the scattered crumbs. 

How glad he seems to get to eat 
A piece of cake or bread! 

He wears no shoes upon his feet, 

Nor hat upon his head. 

But happiest is he, I know, 

Because no cage with bars 

Keeps him from walking on the snow 
And printing it with stars. 


NEST EGGS 
By Robert Louis Stevenson 

Birds all the sunny day 
Flutter and quarrel 
Here in the arbour-like 
Tent of the laurel. 

Here in the fork 

The brown nest is seated; 
Four little blue eggs 

The mother keeps heated. 


FOB THE CHILDREN 


379 


While we stand watching her. 
Staring like gabies, 

Safe in each egg are the 
Bird’s little babies. 


Soon the frail eggs they shall 
Chip, and upspringing, 
Make all the April woods 
Merry with singing. 


Younger than we are, 

O children, and frailer, 
Soon in blue air they’ll be 
Singer and sailor. 


We, so much older, 

Taller and stronger, 
We shall look down on the 
Birdies no longer. 


They shall go flying 
With musical speeches 
High overhead in the 
Tops of the beeches. 


In spite of our wisdom 
And sensible talking, 
We on our feet must go 
Plodding and walking. 


380 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


LITTLE BIRD 

By Madison Cawein 

I 

A little bird sits in our cottonwood tree, 
And perks his head and sings; 

And this is the song he pipes to me 
While he flirts his tail and wings:— 

“ Hello! hello! 

You jolly little fellow! 

Hello! hello! I say! 

Do you hear me every morning 
How I try to give you warning? 

With my little song adorning 
Every day, every day; 

With my little song adorning every day. 

I want to tell you this, sir: 

You are sweeter than a kiss, sir, 

You are fairer than a posy, 

With your face so fresh and rosy; 

Oh, I love to see you merry at your play, 
Every day; 

I love to see you laughing at your play. 

Hello! hello! 

You merry little fellow! ” 

II 

And I run to the tree where he sings and sits 
High up on the topmost limb; 

And he cocks his eye and flirts and flits 
While I reply to him :— 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


381 


“ Hello! hello! 

You cunning little fellow! 

Hello! hello! I say! 

You are complimenting early; 

And your song is clear and pearly 
As the dewdrop dripping nearly 
From the spray, from the spray; 

As the dewdrop dripping nearly from the 
spray. 

Your singing is far sweeter 
Than any rhyme or metre: 

Oh, I love to hear you whistle, 

Swinging lighter than a thistle, 

And I hope you’ll come and see me every day, 
Every day; 

I hope you’ll come and see me every day. 
Hello! hello! 

You darling little fellow!” 

MEADOW TALK 
By Nora Archibald Smith 

“ Don’t pick all the flowers! ” cried Daisy one day 
To a rosy-cheeked boy who was passing her way. 

“ If you take every one, you will very soon see 
That when next summer comes, not a bud will there 
be!” 


“ Quite true! ” said the Clover, 
“ And over and over 
I’ve sung that same song 
To whoe’er came along.” 


382 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Quoth the Buttercup, “ I 

Have not been at all shy 

In impressing that rule 

On each child of the school.” 

44 I’ve touched the same subject,” 
Said Timothy Grass. 

44 4 Leave just 9, few flowers! ’ 

I beg, as they pass.” 

Sighed a shy little Fern, 

From her home in the shade, 

44 About pulling up roots, 

What a protest I’ve made! ” 

44 The children are heedless! ” 

The Gentian declared. 

44 When my blossom-time comes, 

Not a bud will be spared.” 

44 Take courage, sw T eet neighbor! ” 
The Violet said; 

And raised in entreaty 
Her delicate head. 

44 The children are thoughtless, 

I own, in my turn; 

But if we all teach them, 

They cannot but learn.” 

44 The lesson,” said the Alders, 

44 Is a simple one, indeed, 

Where no root is, blooms no flower , 
Where no flower is, no seed." 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


383 


“ ’Tis very well said! ” chirped the Robin, 

From the elm-tree fluttering down; 

“ If you’ll write on your leaves such a lesson, 

I’ll distribute them over the town.” 

“ Oh, write it, dear Alders! ” the Innocents cried, 
Their pretty eyes tearfully blue; 

“ You are older than we are; you’re strong and 
you’re wise— 

There’s none but would listen to you! ” 

But, ah! the alders could not write; 

And though the Robin knew 
The art as well as any bird— 

Or so he said—he flew 
Straight up the hill and far away, 
Remarking as he went, 

He had a business errand 

And was not on pleasure bent. 

Did the children learn the lesson, 

Though ’twas never written down? 

We shall know when, gay and blithesome, 
Lady Summer comes to town. 


THE MISCHIEVOUS MORNING-GLORY 

{Adapted from the Japanese) 

By Mary Fenollosa 

It was the rosy flush of dawn 
In beautiful Japan, 

When, from the house with swinging pail, 




384 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


Came little Noshi-San, 

Her strapped and lacquered wooden clogs 
A-clicking as she ran. 

She hurried to the mossy well, 

Then paused, for—what a sight!— 

Her bucket-pole was held secure 
By tendrils curling tight, 

And one great, dewy, purple bloom 
Had opened to the light. 

The dainty thief, with smile and nod, 
Looked up as if to say, 

“ I got here first; and don’t you think 
That really I should stay? ” 

And Noshi gravely answered, “ Yes, 

I’ll find another way.” 

She sought a kindly neighbor’s well 
And, laughing, told her plight. 

“ Gift-water I must beg of you! ” 

The neighbor’s smile was bright; 

But, being Japanese, she thought 
The child exactly right. 

THE SEED 
By Mary Fenollosa 

(Good-Night) 

Here’s a sleepy little seed 
Wants to go to bed. 

Tightly shut the little eye 
In his sleepy head. 


FOR THE CHILDREN 


885 


Dig a couch in earth for him, 

Soft and warm and deep; 

Tuck the cover gently in— 

Now he’s fast asleep. 

( Good-Morning) 

What a yawn of little leaves! 

What a stretch of root! 

Baby seed is up at last; 

Now he wants to shoot! 

Bring him bath of rosy dew, 

Give him yards of twine, 

Hear him laugh his tendrils out! 
Soon he’ll be a vine. 

(Growth) 

Leaves are crowding thick and fast. 

Stems are brittle things! 

Grave responsibility 
High position brings. 

Earth-worm dragons must be slain, 
Humming-birds defied. 

“ Would I were a seed again ! 99 
Morning-glory cried. 

(Blossoms) 

Ah, a bud! all blue and white, 
Twisted like a shell. 

Something strange must happen soon, 
Any one can tell! 


386 POETRY’S PLEA FOB ANIMALS 


Something stirs against the dawn!— 
Is it bird or bee? 

Or a purple-hearted song 
Blown for you and me? 







387 









And when the stream 
Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 

A consciousness remained that it had left, 
Deposited upon the silent shore 
Of memory, images and precious thoughts, 

That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 

Excursion. William Wordsworth. 


388 


IN MEMORIAM 


LADDIE 

By Katharine Lee Bates 

Lowly the soul that waits 
At the white, celestial gates, 

A threshold soul to greet 
Beloved feet. 

Down the streets that are beams of sun 
Cherubim children run; 

They welcome it from the wall; 

Their voices call. 

But the Warder saith: “ Nay, this 
Is the City of Holy Bliss. 

What claim canst thou make good 
To angelhood? ” 

“ Joy,” answereth it from eyes 
That are amber ecstasies, 

Listening, alert, elate, 

Before the gate. 

OK liow the frolic feet 
On lonely memory heat! 

What rapture in a run 
9 Twixt snow and sun! 

389 


390 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


“ Nay, brother of the sod, 

What part hast thou in God? 
What spirit art thou of? ” 

It answers: “ Love,” 

Lifting its head, no less 
Cajoling a caress, 

Our winsome collie wraith, 

Than in glad faith 

The door will open wide, 

Or kind voice bid: “ Abide, 

A threshold soul to greet 
The longed-for feet.” 

Ah, Keeper of the Portal, 
If Love he not immortal, 
If Joy he not divine. 
What prayer is mine? 

TO SIGURD 

By Katharine Lee Bates 

Not one blithe leap of welcome? 

Can you lie 

Under this woodland mould, 

More still 

Than broken daffodil, 

When I, 

Home from too long a roving, 
Come up the silent hill? 

Dear, wistful eyes, 

White ruff and windy gold 


IN MEMORIAM 


391 


Of collie coat so oft caressed, 

Not one quick thrill 
In snowy breast, 

One spring of jubilant surprise, 

One ecstasy of loving? 

Are all our frolics ended? Never more 
Those royal romps of old, 

When one, 

Playfellow of the sun, 

Would pour 

Adventures and romances 
Into a morning run; 

Off and away, 

A flying glint of gold, 

Startling to wing a husky choir 
Of crows whose dun 
Shadows would tire 

Even that wild speed? Unscared to-day 
They hold their weird seances. 

Ever you dreamed, legs twitching, you would 
catch 

A crow, O leaper bold, 

Next time, 

Or chase to branch sublime 
That batch 

Of squirrels daring capture 
In saucy pantomime; 

Till one spring dawn, 

Resting amid the gold 
Of crocuses, Death stole on you 


392 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


From that far clime 
Where dreams come true, 

And left upon the starry lawii 
Your form without your rapture. 


And was Death’s whistle then so wondrous 
sweet 

Across the glimmering wold 
That you 

Would trustfully pursue 
Strange feet? 

When I was gone, each morrow 
You sought our old haunts through, 

Slower to play, 

Drooping in faded gold; 

Now it is mine to grieve and miss 
My comrade true 
Who used to kiss 

With eager tongue such tears away, 
Coaxing a smile from sorrow. 


I know not what life is, nor what is death, 
Nor how vast Heaven may hold 
All this 

Earth-beauty and earth-bliss. 

Christ saith 

That not a sparrow falleth 
—O songs of sparrow faith!— 

But God is there. 

May not a leap of gold 

Yet greet me on some gladder hill, 


IN MEMORIAM 


393 


A shining wraith, 

Rejoicing still, 

As in those hours we found so fair, 
To follow where love calleth? 


HIS NAME WAS BOB 
By M. V. Carutliers 

A little mongrel dog—he couldn’t boast 
The smallest trace of blooded pedigree— 

All legs and feet, a no’count tail, that thumped 
Its joyous greeting at the sight of me— 

But loving! There’s no dictionary prints 
The word which, to my thinking, can express 
That look that shone in his brown eyes of trust, 
Solicitude and wistful tenderness! 

O’ nights his tawny head against my knee, 

We’d sit together—yesterday he died— 

And every one who loves a dog will know 
Just why, a lonely-hearted man—I cried! 


A FAITHFUL DOG 
By Richard Burton 

My merry-hearted comrade on a day 
Gave over all his mirth, and went away 
Upon the darksome journey I must face 
Sometime as well. Each hour I miss his grace, 





394 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 

His meek obedience and his constancy. 

Never again will he look up to me 
With loyal eyes, nor leap for my caress 
As one who wished not to be masterless; 

And never shall I hear his pleading bark 
Outside the door, when all the ways grow dark. 
Bidding the house-folk gather close inside. 

It seems a cruel thing, since he has died, 

To make his memory small, or deem it sin 
To reckon such a mate as less than kin. 

O faithful follower, O gentle friend, 

If thou art missing at the journey’s end, 
Whate’er of joy or solace there I find 
Unshared by thee I left so far behind, 

The gladness will be mixed with tears, I trow, 
My little crony of the long ago! 

For how could heaven be home-like, with the door 
Fast-locked against a loved one, evermore? 


IN MEMORY OF A DUMB FRIEND 

By Amelia Josephine Burr 

Strange that so small mortality should leave 
So large an emptiness! for as we grieve 
Your little life of seven happy years 
Ended for us, one who could understand 
Each subtle word, and answer hand with hand 
Had hardly taken greater toll of tears. 

Yet why should we not mourn as for a friend? 
That name was yours; if eyery man would spend 


IN MEMOBIAM 


395 


His life as well, earth were not hard to save. 
Grant that God made your heart and brain but 
small. 

What more has an archangel than his all? 

And all God gave to you, to us you gave. 

TO THE DOGS OF THE GREAT ST. BERNARD 

By Abbie Farwell Brown 

(From the French of Chanoine Jules Gross of St. 

Bernard) 

Brave dogs of St. Bernard, companions dear 
On the pale mountains through the livelong year, 
To you, the hardy squires of our King, 

Who scorn the storm and hail, to you I sing! 

Here in the misty cloudlands where we dwell, 
What matters avalanche and tempest fell? 

Our realm of pure white snow and ice is best; 

Our task to save the wanderer, cheer the guest. 

Many have sung of Barry, good and great, 

His was a hero’s life, a martyr’s fate . 1 

And so, dear dogs, you all will live and die! 

Ah, you are dowered with beauty, strength and skill; 
Obedience, devotion and good will. 

What wonder all men love you, as do I? 

1 The noble dog Barry saved the lives of forty persons and 
was killed by the forty-first. 


396 POETRY’S PLEA FOR ANIMALS 


A DOG’S GRAVE 
By W. M. Letts 

He sleeps where he would wish, in easy call, 
Here in a primrose nook beside the wall, 
And near the gate, that he may guard us all 
Even in death, our faithful seneschal. 

I do not think the courteous Cherubim 
Will chide him if he waits, nor Seraphim 
Summon him hence till we may follow him 
Who knew no heav’n without—faithful Tim. 


A HORSE’S EPITAPH 

By Lord Sherbrooke 

Soft lies the turf on those who find their rest 
Beneath our common mother’s ample breast, 
Unstained by meanness, avarice, or pride; 
They never cheated, and they never lied. 
They ne’er intrigued a rival to dispose; 

They ran, but never betted on the race; 
Content with harmless sport and simple food, 
Boundless in faith and love and gratitude; 
Happy the man, if there be any such,— 

Of whom his epitaph can say as much. 


IN MEMORIAM 


397 


INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A 
NEWFOUNDLAND DOG 

By Lord Byron 
Near this spot 

Are deposited the Remains of one 
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 

Strength without Insolence, 

Courage without Ferocity, 

And ale the Virtues of Man without His Vices. 

This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery 
If inscribed over human ashes. 

Is BUT A JUST TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF 

Boatswain, a Dog, 

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 

And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808. 

Poem to the Same 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 

The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe, 

And storied urns record who rests below; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been : 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

Whose honest heart is still his master’s own, 

Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: 


Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, 
Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn; 
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise; 
I never knew but one—and here he lies. 




Cries still are heard in secret nooks, 

Till hushed with gag or slit or thud; 

And hideous dens whereon none looks 
Are blotched with needless blood. 

But here, in battlings, patient, slow, 

Much has been won—more, maybe, than we know— 
And on we labour stressful. “ Ailinon! ” 

A mighty voice calls: “ But may the good prevail! ” 
And “ Blessed are the merciful! ” 

Calls yet a mightier one. 

Compassion . Thomas Haedy. 


398 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


To the poets and publishers, whose generous co¬ 
operation made this volume possible, the indebtedness 

of the editor is hereby formally acknowledged: 

The American Humane Association —One selection from The 
National Humane Review. 

The American Humane Education Society —One selection from 
its official organ, Our Dumb Animals. 

The American Society eor the Prevention oe Cruelty to 
Animals —Three selections from Our Animal Friends. 

D. Appleton and Company —“To a Waterfowl” from The 
Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant; “The Blood 
Horse” by Bryant W. Proctor from volume 2, Library of 
British Poets; and, “ Baboon,” copyright by D. Appleton and 
Company, from Selected Poems by Charles Hanson Towne. 

Richard Badger —“My Eegacy” from The Radiant Road by 
Ethelwyn Wetherald. 

Barse and Hopkins —“ The Eark ” from Rhymes of a Red Cross 
Man by Robert W. Service published by Barse and Hop¬ 
kins, Newark, New Jersey. 

The Bobbs-Merrill Company —“ One of His Animal Stories ” 
from The Book of Joyous Children. Copyright, 1902. Used 
by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill 
Company. 

BrEntano’s —“ To a Linnet in a Cage ” from Complete Poems of 
Francis Ledwidge. 

Jonathan Cape, Limited —Poems from Collected Poems of 
William H. Davie#. 

The Century Company —“ Brother Beasts,” copyrighted, and 
used with permission of Cale Young Rice, the author of the 
book ( Wraiths and Realities) from which the poem is taken, 
and the publishers, The Century Company. 

R. Cobden-Sanderson —“ The Ants ” from John Clare: Poems, 
chiefly from MSS., edited by Edmund Blunden and Alan 
Porter. 

Constable and Company —“Titmouse” from The Veil by Wal¬ 
ter de la Mare. “Nicholas Nye ” and “Tit for Tat” from 
Peacock Pie by Walter de la Mare, 

399 


400 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The C. W. Daniee Company —“The Little Red Bullock” from 
The Wide Garden and Other Poems by Herbert Tremaine. 

J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd. —“ My Dog and I ” from Spun Yarn 
and Spindrift by Norah M. Holland, published by J. M. Dent 
and Sons, Ltd., London and Toronto. “ Thrushes ” from 
Theophanies by Evelyn Underhill. 

Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. —Poems from Poems by Arthur 
Christopher Benson, Complete Works of William Blake, 
Poems of Rupert Brooke, Complete Poems of Paul Laurence 
Dunbar, Coal and Candle Light by Helen Parry Eden, The 
Queen's Chronicler by Stephen Gwynn, Hail! Men by Angela 
Morgan, The Child World by Gabriel Setoun, and Poems by 
Rosamund M. Watson. Copyright by Dodd, Mead and Com¬ 
pany, Inc. 

George H. Doran Company —“In Memory of a Dumb Friend” 
from In Deep Places by Amelia Josephine Burr, copyright, 
1914; “The Loon” from Roadside Fire by Amelia Josephine 
Burr, copyright, 1912; “Trees” from Trees and Other 
Poems by Joyce Kilmer, copyright, 1914; “At the Dog 
Show” and “In Honor of Taffy Topaz” from Songs for a 
Little House by Christopher Morley, copyright, 1917; “The 
Birds” from The Birds and Other Poems by J. C. Squire, 
cepy right, 1920. 

DoubcEday, Page and Company— Poems from Shoes of Happi¬ 
ness by Edwin Markham, and The Far Country by Florence 
Wilkinson. 

Doubeeday, Page and Company (America) and A. P. Watt and 
Son (England)—“ Toomai of the Elephants” and “ Lukan- 
non” from The Jungle Book, copyright, 1893, 1894, by Rud- 
yard Kipling, published by Doubleday, Page & Company. 
“ Beast and Man in India ” by John Lockwood Kipling, from 
Chapter Headings from Rudyard Kipling's Verse, Inclusive 
Edition, 1885-1918. These poems are used by permission, 
authorized by Mr. Rudyard Kipling. 

Dueeiecd and Company— “ The Deer Trapper ” by Francis Sterne 
Palmer from Camp Fire Verse by William Haynes. 

E. P. Dutton Company —“The First Bluebirds,” “ The Horses” 
and “Only Mules” by permission from The Retinue by 
Katharine Lee Bates. Copyright by E. P. Dutton and Com¬ 
pany. “To Sigurd” and “Laddie” by permission from 
Sigurd: Our Golden Collie by Katharine Lee Bates. Copy¬ 
right by E. P. Dutton and Company. “The Donkey” by 
permission from The Wild Knight and Other Poems by G, 
K. Chesterton. Published by E. P. Dutton and Company. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 401 

“*F I Was Er Horse” by permission from Youngsters by 
Burges Johnson. Copyright by E. P. Dutton and Company. 
“Pensioners” and “A Dog’s Grave” by permission from 
The Spires of Oxford by Winifred M. Eetts. Published by 
E. P. Dutton and Company. “ The Heart of a Bird ” by 
permission from The Witch Maid by Dorothea MacKellar. 
Published by E. P. Dutton and Company. “A B C’s in 
Green ” by permission from A Canopic Jar by Eeonora 
Speyer. Copyright by E. P. Dutton and Company. 

The Forum —“ Polo Ponies ” by Eleanor Baldwin. Copyrighted 
by The Forum magazine. 

The Four Seas Company —“ To Some Philadelphia Sparrows ” 
from Willow Pollen by Jeanette Marks, published by The 
Four Seas Company, Boston. 

Robert Frothingham —“A Horse’s Epitaph” from Songs of 
Horses by Robert Frothingham. 

>o. ■t-1 

Funk and Wagnaggs Company —“ At the Zoo ” from Blind 
Children by Israel Zangwill. Copyright, 1903, by Funk and 
Wagnalls Company, New York and Eondon. 

Norman Gage —Poems from A Flight of Fancies, A Merry-Go- 
Round of Song, and Collected Poems. 

M. H. Gigg and Son, Etd. —“ A Health to the Birds ” from 
Ballads of a Country Boy by Seumas MacManus. 

HarcourT, Brace and Company —“Da Pup Een Da Snow” from 
McAronie Ballads by T. A. Daly. Reprinted by permission 
of Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., holders of the copy¬ 
right. 

Harper and Brothers —“ The Road to Vagabondia ” from Poems 
by Dana Burnet, “ The Dialogue of the Horses ” from Farm 
Festivals by Will Carleton, “ Tigers ” from Poems by Eouise 
Morgan Sill, and “ To a Cat ” from Selected Lyrical Poems 
by Algernon Swinburne. Harper and Brothers, publishers. 
“ A Boy and a Pup ” and “ Little Lost Pup ” by Arthur 
Guiterman, from The Laughing Muse, copyright, 1915, by 
Harper and Brothers, and “ A Mascot ” by Arthur Guiterman, 
from The Mirthful Lyre, copyright, 1918, by Harper and 
Brothers. 

Henry Hogt and Company —“ The Nightingales of Flanders ” 
from Wilderness Songs by Grace Hazard Conkling, “ The 
Marsh” and “ Cattle before the Storm ” from The Enchanted 
Mesa by Glenn Ward Dresbach, “ A Brook in the City ” 
from Poems by Robert Frost, and “ Four Little Foxes ” and 
“ To a Wild Goose Over Decoys ” from Slow Smoke by Lew 
Sarett. 


402 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The John Hopkins Press —“ The Burthen of the Ass ” from 
Father Tabb: A Study of His Life and Works, with Ten 
Hundred Unpublished Poems by Francis A. Eitz. 

Houghton Mieeein Company —The extracts from Heart of New 
England by Abbie Farwell Brown, Songs of Sixpence by 
Abbie Farwell Brown, Out Where the West Begins by Arthur 
Chapman, Poems by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Complete Poems 
by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Riders of the Stars by Henry 
Herbert Knibbs, Poems by Eucy Earcom, Complete Works 
of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Sword Blades and Poppy 
Seed by Amy Eowell, The Lifted Cup by Jessie B. Ritten- 
house, Little-Folk Lyrics by Frank Dempster Sherman, The 
Christmas Child and Other Poems for Children by Nora 
Archibald Smith, Poems by Celia Thaxter, and Poems by 
Bayard Taylor are used by permission of, and special ar¬ 
rangements with Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized 
publishers. 

Keeey and Waesh, Shanghai, China, and Charees Scribner’s 
Sons, New York—“Wild Geese” from Chinese Lyrics by 
Frederick Peterson. 

MiTCheee KennereEY —Poems from Songs of the Army of the 
Night by Francis Adams, Man-Song by John G. Neihardt, 
and Sixteen Dead Men and Other Poems of Easter Week 
by Dora Sigerson Shorter. 

The Ladies' Home Journae —“ The Fate of the Fur-Folk ” by 
Edwin Markham. 

Eiee—“ The Kind Lady’s Furs ” by Strickland Gillilan. 

J. B. EippincoTT Company —“ Sheridan’s Ride ” by Thomas 
Buchanan Read, courtesy of J. B. Eippincott Company, pub¬ 
lishers, Philadelphia. 

The Eondon Mercury— “ The Quails ” by Francis Brett Young. 

Eongmans, Green and Company —“ The Mother Bird ” from 
Songs of Childhood by Walter de la Mare, and “ Tapestry 
Trees” from By the Way by William Morris. 

The Macmieean Company— “ My Dog,” “ The Catch,” and 
“The Seeing Eye” from The Foothills of Parnassus by John 
Kendrick Bangs; “ The Sea Mew ” from Poems by Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning; “How They Brought the Good News 
from Ghent” from Poems by Robert Browning; “Indif¬ 
ference” from Garden Grace by Louise Driscoll, copyright, 
1924, The Macmillan Company; “A Yoke of Steers” from 
Skylines and Horizons by DuBose Heyward, copyright, 1924, 
The Macmillan Company; “The Bells of Heaven” and 
“Stupidity Street” from Poems by Ralph Hodgson, copy- 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


403 


right, 1917, The Macmillan Company; “The Broncho That 
Would Not Be Broken ” from Collected Poems by Vachel 
Iyindsay; “Tewkesbury Road” from Poems by John Mase¬ 
field, copyright, 1925, The Macmillan Company; “ Birds ” and 
“ A Bee Sets Sail ” from A Gate of Cedar by Katharine 
Morse, copyright, 1922, The Macmillan Company; “ The hast 
Antelope” from Barbed Wire and Wayfarers by Edwin Ford 
Piper, copyright, 1924, The Macmillan Company; “Fur and 
Feather,” “Hurt No hiving Thing,” “The City Mouse” and 
“These All Wait Upon Thee” from Complete Works of 
Christina Rossetti; “ The Snare ” and “ The Cage ” from 
Songs from the Clay by James Stephens, copyright, 1915, 
The Macmillan Company; “The Army Horse” from The 
Little Flag on Main Street by Mchandburgh Wilson. 

Robert M. McBride and Company —“ The Turkish Trench Dog ” 
from Poems by Geoffrey Dearmer. 

David McKay Company —“ The Kerry Cow ” from Songs from 
Leinster by Winifred M. hetts. 

The Mosher Press —“ April in the City ” from Candle and Cross 
by Elizabeth Scollard. 

The Musson Book Company, Etd. —“On the Companionship of 
Nature” from Lyrics of Earth by Archibald hampman, pub¬ 
lished by arrangement with The Musson Book Company, 
htd., Toronto. 

The Norman, Remington Company —“The Gardener’s Cat” 
and “ Hold ” from Green Days and Bine Days by Patrick R. 
Chalmers. 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons —Poems from The Marble House by Ellen 
M. Huntington Gates. Songs in Cities and Gardens by Helen 
Granville-Barker, In Woods and Fields by Augusta Earned, 
Collected Poems by Grace Denio hitchfield, and Florentine 
Cyle by Gertrude Huntington McGiffert. 

Reieey and hEE Company— “ Bob White ” and “ A Boy and His 
Dog” from When Day Is Done by Edgar A. Guest, copy¬ 
righted, Reilly and hee Company; “ The Pup ” from Just 
Folks by Edgar A. Guest, copyrighted, Reilly and hee Com¬ 
pany; “The Yellow Dog” from The Passing Throng by 
Edgar A. Guest, copyrighted, Reilly and hee Company. 

The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals 
—“ Compassion ” by Thomas Hardy from A Century of 
Work for Animals by Edward G. Fairholme and Wellesley 
Pain. 


404 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Charges Scribner’s Sons —Poems from Collected Poems by Ed¬ 
mund Gosse, A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis 
Stevenson, The Builders and Songs Out of Doors by Henry 
van Dyke, and “ In the Zoo ” by George T. Marsh from 
Scribner’s Magazine. 

Thomas Seetzer —“ Snake ” from Birds, Beasts and Flowers by 
D. H. Lawrence. 

Smaee, Maynard and Company —“To a Buffalo Skull” and 
“ To a Rattlesnake ” from Cowboy Lyrics by Robert V. 
Carr; “Little Bird” from The Giant and the Star by Madi¬ 
son Cawein; “ Feedin’ the Stock” from Pine Tree Ballads 
by Holman F. Day and “I’ve Got Them Calves to Veal” 
and “The Stock in the Tie-Up” from Up in Maine by Hol¬ 
man F. Day; “Thou Little God Within the Brook” from 
The Poems of Philip Henry Savage; “ Is Thy Servant a 
Dog? ” from Poems by John B. Tabb. 

The Sonnet —“ Oxen ” and “ The Old Plough-Horse ” by Mahlon 
Leonard Fisher, and “ In Cool, Green Haunts ” from Son¬ 
nets: A First Series by Mahlon Leonard Fisher. 

Frederick A. Stokes Company —“ Chickadee ” reprinted by per¬ 
mission from Poems by a Little Girl by Hilda Conkling. 
Copyright, 1920, by Frederick A. Stokes Company. “ The 
Seed” and “The Mischievous Morning-Glory” reprinted by 
permission from Blossoms from a Japanese Garden by Mary 
Fenollosa. Copyright, 1913, by Frederick A. Stokes Com¬ 
pany. “To a Tree-Frog” reprinted by permission from As 
the Wind Blew by Amelie Rives. “The Bee in Church” re¬ 
printed by permission from The Elfin Artist and Other 
Poems by Alfred Noyes. Copyright, 1920, by Frederick A. 
Stokes Company. “ The Skylark Caged ” reprinted by per¬ 
mission from Collected Poems, Volume II, by Alfred Noyes. 
Copyright, 1910, by Frederick A. Stokes Company. 

The P. F. Voeeand Company —Verses from Rhymes for Kindly 
Children by Fairmont Snyder. 

Frederick Warne and Company, Ltd. — A poem from The 
Poetical Works of Charles Mackay. 

YaeE University Press— Poems from Blue Smoke by Karle 
Wilson Baker. 

The list of acknowledgments should include tribute 

to the friendly interest of Honorable Percival H. Bax¬ 
ter, Miss Esther M. Davis, Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske, 
Mr. Albert F. Gilmore, Mr. William K. Horton, Miss 


A CKNO WLEDGMENTS 


405 


Emma L. Johnston, Dr. Francis H. Rowley, and the late 
Mrs. Ellin Prince Speyer; to the gracious cooperation 
of members of the staff of Pratt Institute Free Library, 
especially Mr. Edward F. Stevens, librarian, and Miss 
Annie Mackenzie and Miss Elin J. Lindgren; and to the 
clerical devotion of Miss Ruth Sasuly. 


INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Adams, Francis 

Rape of the Nest, The 56 
Allen, Lucy Branch 

Bird Man, The. 53 

Alling, Kenneth Seade 
On the Passing of the 


Last Fire Horse from 
Manhattan Island.... 95 

Anonymous 

“ Doomed ”. 133 

For a Little Brown Dog 107 
“Good-Bye, Old 
Friend!” . 237 


Kindness to Animals... 363 

Arnoed, (Sir) Edwin 

Pearl Seventy-Eight... 281 

Baker, Karee Wilson 


Good Company. 27 

Thrushes . 58 

Baldwin, Eleanor 

Calf, The. 177 

Polo Ponies. 99 

Bangs, John Kendrick 

Catch, The. 307 

My Dog. 106 

Seeing Eye, The. 11 

Basho 

Green Leaves. 35 

Bates, Katharine Lee 
First Bluebirds, The... 59 

Horses, The. 236 

Laddie . 389 

Only Mules. 250 

To Sigurd. 390 

Benson, Arthur Christopher 

Toad, The. 150 

Wounds. 317 

Benson, Margaret 

Once on a Time. 14 

Beake, Wieeiam 

Lamb, The. 371 

Three Things to Re¬ 
member . 363 


Tiger, The. 221 

Brooke, Rupert 

Fish, The. 205 

Brown, Abbie Farweee 
To the Dogs of the 
Great St. Bernard... 395 
Wasted Morning, A... 29 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 

Sea-Mew, The. 82 

Browning, Robert 
“ How They Brought 
the Good News from 

Ghent to Aix ”. 256 

Bryant, William Cullen 

To a Waterfowl. 76 

Burnet, Dana 
Road to Vagabondia, 

The . 103 

Burns, Robert 

Lauth . 113 

On Scaring Some 
Waterfowl in Loch- 

Turit. 77 

To a Field Mouse. 153 

Wounded Hare, The... 320 

Burr, Amelia Josephine 
In Memory of a Dumb 

Friend . 394 

Loon, The. 84 

Burroughs, Jack 

Friend in Need, A. 137 

Burton, Richard 

Faithful Dog, A. 393 

Byron, George Gordon, Lord 
Inscription on the Monu¬ 
ment of a Newfound¬ 
land Dog. 397 

Campbell, Archibald Y. 

Dromedary, The. 333 

Campbell, Jane 

Gray Kitten, The. 370 

Campbell, Nancy 

Monkey, The. 225 


406 







































INDEX OF AUTHORS 407 


Carducci, Giosue 

Ox, The. 181 

Careeton, Wiee 

Dialogue of the Horses 95 
Carr, Robert V. 

To a Buffalo Skull.... 216 

To a Rattlesnake. 217 

Carrington, James Beebe 
To a Rady in Her Furs 297 
Caruthers, M. V. 

His Name Was Bob... 393 
Cawein, Madison Jueius 


Little Bird. 380 

Chaemers, Patrick R. 

Gardener’s Cat, The... 127 

“Hold”. 267 

Chambereain, Wide 

I Am the Mule. 138 

Chapman, Arthur 

Meeting, The. 212 

War-Horse Buyers, The 234 
Chaucer, Geoefrey 
From “ The Manciple’s 

Tale”. 337 

Cheney, Annie Eeizabeth 
Coyote Prowled, A .... 214 

Chesterton, Giebert Keith 

Donkey, The. 137 

Chied, Lydia Maria 

If Ever I See. 376 

Chiede, Wiefred Roweand 

Grasshopper, The. 196 

Ceare, John 

Ants, The. 196 

CeEator, Aeice Jean 
Little Dog of Amuse¬ 
ment Zoo. 353 

Coburn, Louise Heeen 

Oriole, The. 60 

Coleins, Mortimer 

My Thrush... 57 

Conkeing, Grace Waecott 
Hazard 

Nightingales of Flan¬ 
ders, The. 252 

Conkeing, Hieda 

Chickadee . 63 


CoyeE, Henry 

Pussy’s Plea. 133 

Cronyn, George 

Tree’s Way, The. 33 

Daemon, Charees 


Caterpillar’s Apology, A 193 
Cow at Sullington, A.. 161 

Daey, Thomas Augustus 
Da Pup Een Da Snow 109 
Davies, Wieeiam Henry 


Child’s Pet, A. 176 

Nature’s Friend. 366 

Sheep . 175 

Dawtrey, Hannah J. 

For Vanity. 298 

Day, Hoeman Francis 

Feedin’ the Stock. 165 

I’ve Got Them Calves 

to Veal. 171 

Stock in the Tie-Up, 

The. 168 

Dearmer, Geoffrey 
Turkish Trench Dog, 

The. 232 

De ea Mare, Waeter 

Mother Bird, The. 54 

Nicholas Nye. 140 

Tit for Tat. 374 

Titmouse. 67 


Doane, Wieeiam Crosweee 
Bishop Doane’s Tribute 
to His Dog Cluny... 105 

DoyeE, (Sir) Francis Hast¬ 


ings Charees 

Fusiliers’ Dog, The.... 230 

Dresbach, Geenn Ward 
Cattle Before the Storm 164 

Marsh, The. 7 

Driscoee, Louise 

Indifference . 19 1 

Duff, James Leo 

To a Wood-Rat. 155 

Dunbar, Paue Laurence 
Dat 01 ’ Mare O’ Mine 97 
Eden, Heeen Parry 

Sir Bat-Ears. 263 




































408 


INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Emerson, Ralph Waldo 

From “ May Day ”. 47 

Humble-Bee, The. 189 

Titmouse, The. 64 

Fenollosa, Mary McNeill 
Mischievous Morning- 

Glory, The. 38 3 

Seed, The. 384 

Fisher, Maheon Leonard 
In Cool, Green Haunts 307 
Old Plough-Horse, The 89 

Oxen. 181 

Feynn, Cearence E. 

His Epitaph. 18 

Foss, Sam Waeter 
Bloodless Sportsman, 

The. 311 

Frankau, Gilbert 

Gun-Teams. 240 

Frost, Robert 

Brook in the City, A .. 17 

GaeE, Norman 

Best Friend, The. 372 

Bird in the Hand, A... 55 

Blue-Tit, The. 375 

Dinah . 368 

Neighbour, A. 157 

Poem for Prue, A. 312 

Gaesworthy, John 
Pitiful. 8 


Gargan, Janet 

Caged Squirrel, The... 347 
Captured Eagle, The... 336 
Gareand, Hamein 
To a Captive Crane.... 337 
Gassaway, F. H. 

“Bay Billy”. 242 

Gates, Eeeen M. Huntington 

Little Bird, A. 52 

Gieeiean, Strickeand W. 

Kind Lady’s Furs, The 295 
Gieman, Charlotte Perkins 

Cattle Train, The. 174 

Tree Feelings. 31 

Gosse, Edmund 
Wounded Gull, The... 79 


Granvieee-Barker, Helen 


Captive Butterfly, The. 193 

Owls, The. 74 

Greene, Kathleen Conyng- 
ham 

Animal Song, An. 15 

Griffith, William 

My Dog. 104 

Guest, Edgar Albert 

Bob White. 68 

Boy and His Dog, A... 118 

Pup, The. 116 

Yellow Dog, The. 117 

Guiterman, Arthur 

Boy and a Pup, A. 119 

Little Lost Pup. 120 

Mascot, A. 229 

Gwynn, Stephen 

Captive Polar Bear, The 334 
Hardy, Thomas 

Compassion . 22 

Puzzled Game-Birds, 

The . 316 

Wagtail and Baby. 73 

Harte, Francis Bret 

Grizzly. 214 

Hay, John 

Miles Keogh’s Horse.. 248 
Hayes, John Russell 

Library Dove, The. 70 

Heyward, DuBose 

Yoke of Steers, A. 182 

Hodgson, Ralph 
Bells of Heaven, The .. 13 

Stupidity Street. 43 

Holland, Norah Mary 

My Dog and 1 . 108 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 

Questions. 14 

To a Caged Lion. 332 

How itt, Mary 

Beaver, The. 321 

Woodmouse, The. 152 

Jacobs, Lkland B. 

How to Catch a Bird.. 314 










































INDEX OF AUTHORS 409 


Johnson, Burges 

’F I Was Er Horse! .. 370 
Keats, John 

Minnows . 204 

Keeler, Charles Augustus 
On the Dedication of a 
Drinking Fountain... 19 

Our Brothers of the 
Fields and Trees.... 301 
Kilmer, Joyce 

Trees . 28 

Kipling, John Lockwood 
Beast and Man in India 223 
Kipling, Rudyard 

“ Lukannon ” . 203 

Toomai of the Ele¬ 
phants . 222 

Knibbs, Henry Herbert 

Braves of the Hunt.... 324 

Outcast, The. 122 

Lampman, Archibald 
On the Companionship 
with Nature . 10 


Larcom, Lucy 

Brown Thrush, The... 377 
Larned, Augusta 

Homage of Beasts, The 255 
Lawrence, D. H. 


Snake . 145 

Lawrence, S. St. G. 

Answer, An. 13 

Ledwidge, Francis 
To a Linnet in a Cage 340 
Letts, Winifred M. 

Dog’s Grave, A. 396 

Kerry Cow, The. 162 

Pensioners . 46 

Lindsay, Vachel 
The Broncho That 
Would Not Be Broken 211 
Litchfield, Grace Denio 
Caged. 338 


Longfellow, Henry Wads¬ 
worth 

Bell of Atri, The. 259 

Birds of Killingworth, 

The . 273 


Emperor’s Bird’s-Nest, 


The . 286 

Hiawatha’s Brothers... 364 
Hiawatha’s Chickens... 364 

My Cathedral. 37 

Walter von der Vogel- 

weid . 291 

Lowell, Amy 

Tulip Garden, A. 7 


Mackay, Charles 
Garden Spider, The.... 197 

MacKellar, Dorothea 

Heart of a Bird, The.. 335 

MacManus, Seumas 

Health to the Birds, A 48 


Markham, Edwin 

Lizard, The. 148 

No Sanctuary. 318 

Panther, The. 222 

Marks, Jeannette 
To Some Philadelphia 

Sparrows. 61 

Marsh, George T. 

In the Zoo. 331 

Masefield, John 
Tewkesbury Road. 3 


McCarthy, Denis Florence 
Irish Wolf-Hound, The 113 
McGiffert, Gertrude Hunt¬ 


ington 

Hunt, The. 326 

Miller, Joaquin 

Bison-King, A. 217 

Crossing the Plains.... 183 

Morgan, Angela 

Trees . 34 

Morley, Christopher 

At the Dog Show. 114 

In Honour of Taffy 

Topaz. 127 

Morris, William 

Tapestry Trees. 35 

Morse, Katharine 

Bee Sets Sail, A. 188 

Birds. 60 

Motherwell, William 
“SingOn, Blithe Bird” 50 


































410 


INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Neihardt, John Gneisenau 


To My Cat. 129 

Norton, Caroline 
Arab’s Farewell to His 
Steed, The. 89 


Noyes, Alfred 

Bee in Church, The.... 187 

Sky-Lark Caged, The.. 341 
Nursery Rhymes 

“ A man went a-hunt- 

ing at Reigate ”. 359 

“ Come hither, sweet 

Robin ” . 359 

“ I had a little Doggy ” 361 
“I had a little pony”.. 358 
“ Mary had a little 

lamb”. 360 

“ Shoe the horse ”. 359 

“ There came to my 

window ” . 360 

O’Hagan, Thomas 

Old Brindle Cow, The. 161 
Palmer, Francis Sterne 

Deer-Trapper, The_ 323 

Payne, F. Ursula 

My Lady’s Fur. 297 

Peabody, Josephine Preston 
Song of Solomon, A ... 4 

Peterson, Frederick 

Wild Geese.. 78 

Piper, Edwin Ford 

Last Antelope, The.... 215 

Poole, Louella C. 

Cricket Singing in the 
Market-Place, A .... 194 

Pope, Alexander 
From “ Windsor Forest ” 31^ 
Preston, Margaret J. 

Milan Bird-Cages, The. 288 
Procter, Bryan Waller 
(Barry Cornwall) 


Blood Horse, The. 92 

Rawnsley, Hardwicke Drum¬ 
mond 

We Meet at Morn. in 


Ray, William 
Remorse on Killing a 
Squirrel in a Garden 155 
Read, Thomas Buchanan 


Sheridan’s Ride. 246 

Realf, Richard 

Spirit of Nature, The.. 18 
Rice, Cale Young 

Brother Beasts. 11 

Riley, James Whitcomb 
One of His Animal 

Stories . 282 

Rittenhouse, Jesse B. 

Dragon Fly, The. 192 

Rives, Amelie (Princess 
Troubetzkoy) 

To a Tree-Frog. 149 

Rossetti, Christina 
All Things Wait Upon 

Thee. 187 

Sangster, Margaret Elizabeth 
In a Shop Window.... 115 

Sarett, Lew 

Four Little Foxes. 295 

To a Wild Goose Over 

Decoys .. 316 

Savage, William Henry 
“ Thou Little God With¬ 
in the Brook”. 205 

Scollard, Clinton 
Healing of the Wood, 

The. 32 

Scollard, Elisabeth 

April in the City. 16 

Service, Robert William 

Lark, The. 251 

Sherbrooke, Lord 

Horse’s Epitaph, A.... 396 

Sherman, Frank Dempster 

Snow-Bird, The. 378 

Sherwood, S. Virginia 

Dreams . 112 

Shorter, Dora Sigerson 
Meadow Tragedy, A... 56 

Sill, Louise Morgan 
Tigers . 353 




























INDEX OF AUTHORS 411 


Si* aden, Dougeas W. 

To the Fallen Gum- 
Tree on Mt. Baw- 

Baw . 37 

Smith, May Rieey 

Dead Birds and Easter 299 
Smith, Nora Archibald 
Dogs of War, The.... 233 


Meadow Talk. 381 

Snyder, Fairmont 

Question, A. 361 

Wistful Waif, The.... 362 

Spencer, Robert Wieeiam 

Beth Gelert. 269 

Speyer, Lady Leonora (von 

Stosch) 

A B C’s in Green. 30 

Squire, John Coeeins 

Birds, The. 43 

Stephens, James 

Cage, The. 338 

Snare, The. 322 

Stereing, George 
Black Vulture, The.... 85 

Dog, The. 121 

Stevenson, Robert Eouis 

Cow, The. 371 

Nest Eggs. 378 

Stoner, Winiered Sackvieee 
Pets’ Christmas Carol, 

The. 362 

Swinburne, Aegernon 
Charees 

To a Cat. 130 

Symons, Arthur 
Brother of a Weed, The 4 
Tabb, John Banister 
(“Father Tabb”) 

Burthen of the Ass, The 139 
“ Is Thy Servant a 

Dog?” . 105 

Tayeor, James Bayard 

Hassan to His Mare... 94 
Tayeor, Jane 

I Like Little Pussy.... 369 

Tennyson, Aeered, Lord 
Eagle, The. 84 


Thaxter, Ceeia Leighton 


Little Gustava. 365 

Sandpiper, The. 74 

Thomas, Edith M. 

Little Friends in Fairy¬ 
land . 357 

Widowed Eagle, The.. 319 
Towne, Charees Hanson 
Baboon. 351 


Tremaine, Herbert 

Little Red Bullock, The 173 
Tynan, Katharine 


Chanticleer . 51 

Underhiee, Eveeyn 

Thrushes . 58 

Van Dyke, Henry 


Sea-Gulls of Manhattan 81 
Song-Sparrow, The.... 62 

Watson, Rosamund Marriott 


To My Cat. 129 

Watts-Dunton, Theodore 
Mother Carey’s Chicken 343 
Wetheraed, Etheewyn 

My Legacy. 33 

Whitman, Waet 

Lesson of a Tree, The 39 
Wiecox, Eeea WhEEEER 

Horse, The. 238 

Wiekinson, Florence 

Sermons in Trees. 27 

Wounded . 315 

Wieeis, Nathaniel Parker 
Belfry Pigeon, The.... 71 

Wilson, McLandburgh 

Army Horse, The. 235 

Worden, Alonzo Teaee 

Partridges. 69 

Wordsworth, William 

Fidelity . 265 

Wild Duck’s Nest, The 72 
Young, Francis Brett 

Bete Humaine. 194 

Quails, The. 308 

Zangwiee, Israel 
At the Zoo. 331 


































INDEX OF TITLES 


A B C’s in Green. Leonora Speyer 

All Things Wait Upon Thee. Christina Rossetti 

“A man went a-hunting at Reigate ”. Nursery Rhyme 

Animal Song, An. Kathleen Conyngham Greene 

Answer, An . S. St. G. Lawrence 

Ants, The. John Clare 

April in the City. Elisabeth Scollard 

Arab’s Farewell to His Steed, The. Caroline Norton 

Army Horse, The. McLandburgh Wilson 

At the Dog Show. Christopher Morley 

At the Zoo. Israel Zangwill 

Baboon. Charles Hanson Towne 

“Bay Billy”. F. H. Gassaway 

Beast and Man in India. John Lockwood Kipling 

Beaver, The. Mary Howitt 

Bee in Church, The. Alfred Noyes 

Bee Sets Sail, A. Katharine Morse 

Belfry Pigeon, The. N. P. Willis 

Bell of Atri, The. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Bells of Heaven, The. Ralph Hodgson 

Best Friend, The. Norman Gale 

Bete Humaine. Francis Brett Young 

Beth Gelert. Robert William Spencer 

Bird in the Hand, A. Norman Gale 

Bird Man, The . Lucy Branch Allen 

Birds . Katharine Morse 

Birds of Killingworth, The ..Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Birds, The . Jack Collins Squire 

Bishop Doane’s Tribute to His Dog Cluny... .Bishop Doane 

Bison-King, A . Joaquin Miller 

Black Vulture, The. George Sterling 

Blood Horse, The . Bryan Waller Procter 

Bloodless Sportsman, The. Sam Walter Foss 

Blue-Tit, The. Norman Gale 

Bob White. Edgar A. Guest 

Boy and a Pup, A. Arthur Guiterman 

Boy and His Dog, A. Edgar A. Guest 

Braves of the Hunt. Henry Herbert Knibbs 

Broncho That Would Not Be Broken, The. .Vachel Lindsay 
Brook in the City, A . Robert Frost 


30 

187 

359 

15 
13 

196 

16 
89 

235 
114 
331 
351 
242 
223 
321 

187 

188 
71 

259 

13 

372 

194 

269 

55 

53 

60 

273 

43 

105 

217 

85 

92 
311 
375 
68 
119 
118 

324 

211 

17 


412 







































INDEX OF TITLES 413 


Brother Beasts. Cale Young Rice 

Brother of a Weed, The. Arthur Symons 

Brown Thrush, The . Lucy Larcom 

Burthen of the Ass, The. John B. Tabb 

Caged. Grace Denio Litchfield 

Caged Squirrel, The. Janet Gargan 

Cage, The. James Stephens 

Calf, The. Eleanor Baldwin 

Captive Butterfly, The. Helen Granville-Barker 

Captive Polar Bear, The. Stephen Gwynn 

Captured Eagle, The. Janet Gargan 

Catch, The. John Kendrick Bangs 

Caterpillar’s Apology, A. Charles Dalmon 

Cattle Before the Storm. Glenn Ward Dresbach 

Cattle Train, The. Charlotte Perkins Gilman 

Chanticleer . Katharine Tynan 

Chickadee . Hilda Conkling 

Child’s Pet, A. William H. Davies 

“ Come hither, sweet Robin”. Nursery Rhyme 

Compassion. Thomas Hardy 

Cow at Sullington, A. Charles Dalmon 

Cow, The . Robert Louis Stevenson 

Coyote Prowled, A . Annie Elizabeth Cheney 

Cricket Singing in the Market-Place, A... .Louella C. Poole 

Crossing the Plains. Joaquin Miller 

Da Pup Een Da Snow. T. A. Daly 

Dat Or Mare O’ Mine. Paul Laurence Dunbar 

Dead Birds and Easter. May Riley Smith 

Deer-Trapper, The. Francis Sterne Palmer 

Dialogue of the Horses. Will Carleton 

Dinah. Norman Gale 

Dog’s Grave, A. W. M. Letts 

Dogs of War, The. Nora Archibald Smith 

Dog, The. George Sterling 

Donkey, The. G. K. Chesterton 

“ Doomed ” . Anonymous 

Dragon Fly, The. Jessie B. Rittenhouse 

Dreams . S. Virginia Sherwood 

Dromedary, The. A. Y. Campbell 

Eagle, The. Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

Emperor’s Bird’s-Nest, The. .Henry Wadszvorth Longfellow 

Faithful Dog, A. Richard Burton 

Feedin’ the Stock. Holman F. Day 

Fidelity. William Wordsworth 

First Bluebirds, The. Katharine Lee Bates 

Fish, The. Rupert Brooke 

*F I Was Er Horse! . Burges Johnson 


ii 
4 
377 
139 
338 
347 
338 
177 
193 
334 
336 
307 

193 

164 
174 

51 

63 

176 

359 

22 

161 

371 

214 

194 

183 

109 

97 

299 

323 

95 

368 

396 

233 

121 

137 

133 

192 

112 

333 

84 

286 

393 

165 
265 

59 

205 

370 















































414 INDEX OF TITLES 

For a Little Brown Dog. Anonymous 

For Vanity. Hannah J. Dawtrey 

Four Little Foxes. Lew Sarett 

Friend in Need, A. Jack Burroughs 

From “ The Manciple’s Tale”. Geoffrey Chaucer 

Fusiliers’ Dog, The. Francis Doyle 

Gardener’s Cat, The . Patrick R. Chalmers 

Garden Spider, The. Charles Mackay 

“Good-Bye, Old Friend!” . Anonymous 

Good Company. Karle Wilson Baker 

Grasshopper, The . W. R. Childe 

Gray Kitten, The. Jane Campbell 

Green Leaves. Basho 

Grizzly . Bret Harte 

Gun-Teams . Gilbert Frankau 

Hassan to His Mare. Bayard Taylor 

Healing of the Wood, The. Clinton Scollard 

Health to the Birds, A. Seumas MacManus 

Heart of a Bird, The. Dorothea MacKellar 

Hiawatha’s Brothers. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Hiawatha’s Chickens. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

His Epitaph. Clarence E. Flynn 

His Name was Bob. M. V. Caruthers 

“Hold”. Patrick R. Chalmers 

Homage of Beasts, The. Augusta Lamed 

Horse’s Epitaph, A. Lord Sherbrooke 

Horses, The. Katharine Lee Bates 

Horse, The. Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

“How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix” 

Robert Browning 

How to Catch a Bird. Leland B. Jacobs 

Humble-Bee, The. Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Hunt, The. Gertrude Huntington McGiffert 

I Am the Mule . Will Chamberlain 

If Ever I See. Lydia Maria Child 

“ I had a little Doggy ”. Nursery Rhyme 

“ I had a little pony”. Nursery Rhyme 

I Like Little Pussy. Jane Taylor 

In a Shop Window. Margaret E. Songster 

In Cool, Green Haunts. Mahlon Leonard Fisher 

Indifference. Louise Driscoll 

In Honour of Taffy Topaz. Christopher Morley 

In Memory of a Dumb Friend. Amelia Josephine Burr 

Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog 

Lord Byron 

In the Zoo. George T. Marsh 

Irish Wolf-Hound, The. Denis Florence McCarthy 


107 

298 

295 

137 
337 
230 
127 
197 

237 

27 

196 

370 

35 

214 

240 

94 

32 

48 

335 

364 

364 

18 

393 
267 

255 

396 
236 

238 

256 
314 
189 
326 

138 

376 

361 

358 

369 

115 

307 

191 

127 

394 

397 
33i 
113 













































INDEX OF TITLES 415 


“Is Thy Servant a Dog? ”. John B. Tahb 

I’ve Got Them Calves to Veal . Holman F. Day 

Kerry Cow, The. IV. M. Letts 

Kind Lady’s Furs, The. Strickland Gillilan 

Kindness to Animals . Anonymous 

Laddie . Katharine Lee Bates 

Lamb, The. William Blake 

Lark, The. Robert W. Service 

Last Antelope, The. Edwin Ford Piper 

Lauth. Robert Burns 

Lesson of a Tree, The. Walt Whitman 

Library Dove, The. John Russell Hayes 

Little Bird. Madison Cawein 

Little Bird, A. Ellen M. Huntington Gates 

Little Dog of Amusement Zoo. Alice Jean Cleator 

Little Friends in Fairyland. Edith M. Thomas 

Little Gustava . Celia Thaxter 

Little Lost Pup. Arthur Guiterman 

Little Red Bullock, The. Herbert Tremaine 

Lizard, The. Edwin Markham 

Loon, The. Amelia Josephine Burr 

“Lukannon”. Rudyard Kipling 

Marsh, The. Glenn Ward Dresbach 

“ Mary had a little lamb”. Nursery Rhyme 

Mascot, A. Arthur Guiterman 

“May-Day,” From. Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Meadow Talk. Nora Archibald Smith 

Meadow Tragedy, A. Dora Sigerson Shorter 

Meeting, The . Arthur Chapman 

Milan Bird-Cages, The. Margaret J. Preston 

Miles Keogh’s Horse. John Hay 

Minnows. John Keats 

Mischievous Morning-Glory, The. Mary Fenollosa 

Monkey, The. Nancy Campbell 

Mother Bird, The. Walter de la Mare 

Mother Carey’s Chicken. Theodore Watts-Dunton 

My Cathedral. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

My Dog. John Kendrick Bangs 

My Dog. William Griffith 

My Dog and I. Nor ah M. Holland 

My Lady’s Fur. F. Ursula Payne 

My Legacy. Ethelwyn Wetherald 

My Thrush. Mortimer Collins 

Nature’s Friend. William H. Davies 

Neighbour, A . Norman Gale 

Nest Eggs. Robert Louis Stevenson 

Nicholas Nye. Walter de la Mare 


105 
171 

162 

295 

363 

389 

371 

251 

215 

113 

39 

70 

380 
52 

353 

357 

365 

120 

173 

148 

84 

203 
7 

360 

229 

47 

381 

56 
212 
288 
248 

204 
383 
225 

54 

343 

37 

106 
104 
108 
297 

33 

57 

366 

157 

378 

140 

















































416 


INDEX OF TITLES 


Nightingales of Flanders, The. Grace Hazard Conkling 

No Sanctuary. Edwin Markham 

Old Brindle Cow, The. Thomas O’Hagan 

Old Plough-Horse, The. Mahlon Leonard Fisher 

Once on a Time. Margaret Benson 

One of His Animal Stories. James Whitcomb Riley 

Only Mules . Katharine Lee Bates 

On Scaring Some Waterfowl in Loch-Turit ...Robert Burns 
On the Companionship with Nature ... .Archibald Larnfman 
On the Dedication of a Drinking Fountain.. .Charles Keeler 
On the Passing of the Fast Fire Horse from Manhattan 

Island. Kenneth Slade Ailing 

Oriole, The. Louise Helen Coburn 

Our Brothers of the Fields and Trees. Charles Keeler 

Outcast, The. Henry Herbert Knibbs 

Owls, The. Helen Granville-Barker 

Oxen. Mahlon Leonard Fisher 

Ox, The. Giosue Carducci 

Panther, The. Edwin Markham 

Partridges. Alonzo Teall Worden 

Pearl Seventy-Eight . Edwin Arnold 

Pensioners . W. M. Letts 

Pets’ Christmas Carol, The. Winifred Sackville Stoner 

Pitiful . John Galsworthy 

Poem for Prue, A . Norman Gale 

Polo Ponies. Eleanor Baldwin 

Pup, The. Edgar A. Guest 

Pussy’s Plea. Henry Coyle 

Puzzled Game-Birds, The . Thomas Hardy 

Quails, The. Francis Brett Young 

Question, A. Fairmont Snyder 

Questions . Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Rape of the Nest, The. Francis Adams 

Remorse on Killing a Squirrel in a Garden .... William Ray 

Road to Vagabondia, The. Dana Burnet 

Sandpiper, The. Celia Thaxter 

Sea-Gulls of Manhattan. Henry van Dyke 

Sea-Mew, The. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

Seed, The. Mary Fenollosa 

Seeing Eye, The. John Kendrick Bangs 

Sermons in Trees. Florence Wilkinson 

Sheep. William H. Davies 

Sheridan’s Ride. Thomas Buchanan Read 

“Shoe the horse and shoe the mare”. Nursery Rhyme 

“Sing On, Blithe Bird”. William Mothenvell 

Sir Bat-Ears . Helen Parry Eden 

Sky-Eark Caged, The. Alfred Noyes 


252 
318 
161 
89 
14 
28 2 
250 

77 

10 

19 

95 

60 

301 

122 

74 

181 

181 

222 

69 

281 

46 

362 

8 

312 

99 
116 

133 

316 

308 

361 

14 

56 

155 

103 

74 

81 

82 

384 

11 

2 7 
175 
246 

359 

50 

263 

341 












































INDEX OF TITLES 417 

Snake . D. H. Lawrence 145 

Snare, The. James Stephens 322 

Snow-Bird, The. Frank Dempster Sherman 378 

Song of Solomon, A. Josephine Preston Peabody 4 

Song Sparrow, The. Henry van Dyke 62 

Spirit of Nature, The. Richard Realf 18 

Stock in the Tie-Up, The. Holman F. Day 168 

Stupidity Street. Ralph Hodgson 43 

Tapestry Trees. William Morris 35 

Tewkesbury Road . John Masefield 3 

“There came to my window”. Nursery Rhyme 360 

“Thou Little God Within the Brook ".Philip Henry Savage 205 

Three Things to Remember. William Blake 363 

Thrushes . Karle Wilson Baker 58 

Thrushes . Evelyn Underhill 58 

Tigers. Louise Morgan Sill 353 

Tiger, The . William Blake 221 

Tit for Tat. Walter de la Mare 374 

Titmouse. Walter de la Mare 67 

Titmouse, The. Ralph Waldo Emerson 64 

To a Buffalo Skull. Robert V. Carr 216 

To a Caged Lion . Oliver Wendell Holmes 332 

To a Captive Crane . Hamlin Garland 337 

To a Cat. Algernon Charles Swinburne 130 

Toad, The.*. Arthur C. Benson 150 

To a Field Mouse. Robert Burns 153 

To a Lady in Her Furs./. B. Carrington 297 

To a Linnet in a Cage. Francis Ledividge 340 

To a Rattlesnake. Robert V. Carr 217 

To a Tree-Frog. Amelie Rives 149 

To a Waterfowl. William Cullen Bryant 76 

To a Wild Goose Over Decoys. Lew Sarett 316 

To a Wood-Rat. James Leo Duff 155 

To My Cat. John G. Neihardt 129 

To My Cat. C. Rosamund Marriott Watson 129 

Toomai of the Elephants. Rudyard Kipling 222 

To Sigurd. Katharine Lee Bates 390 

To Some Philadelphia Sparrows. Jeannette Marks 61 

To the Dogs of the Great St. Bernard 

Abbie Farwell Brown 395 
To the Fallen Gum-Tree on Mt. Baw-Baw 

Douglas W. Sladen 37 

Tree Feelings. Charlotte Perkins Gilman 31 

Trees. Joyce Kilmer 28 

Trees . Angela Morgan 34 

Tree’s Way, The. George Cronyn 33 

Tulip Garden, A . Amy Lowell 7 












































418 


INDEX OF TITLES 


Turkish Trench Dog, The. Geoffrey Dearmer 

Wagtail and Baby. Thomas Hardy 

Walter von der Vogelweid. .Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

War-Horse Buyers, The. Arthur Chapman 

Wasted Morning, A. Abbie Farwell Brown 

We Meet at Morn. Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley 

Widowed Eagle, The. Edith M. Thomas 

Wild Duck’s Nest, The. William Wordsworth 

Wild Geese. Frederick Peterson 

“ Windsor Forest,” From . Alexander Pope 

Wistful Waif, The. Fairmont Snyder 

Woodmouse, The. Mary Howitt 

Wounded. Florence Wilkinson 

Wounded Gull, The . Edmund Gosse 

Wounded Hare, The. Robert Burns 

Wounds. Arthur C. Benson 

Yellow Dog, The. Edgar A. Guest 

Yoke of Steers, A. DuBose Heyward 


232 

73 

291 

234 

29 

hi 

319 
72 

78 
317 
362 
152 
315 

79 

320 

317 

117 

182 



















INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


A 

A baby watched a ford, whereto. 73 

A barking sound the shepherd hears. 265 

A bluebird in an apple-tree. 60 

About the water hole, half dried. 164 

A boy and his dog make a glorious pair. 118 

A coyote came one night to the sea. 214 

Across the narrow beach we flit. 74 

A farmhouse lingers, though averse to square. 17 

A heave of mighty shoulders to the yoke. 182 

Ah, how sublime . 35 

A homeless little kitten . 370 

A little bird sits in our cottonwood tree. 380 

A little colt—broncho, loaned to the farm . 211 

A little mongrel dog—he couldn’t boast. 393 

All through the night. 308 

All through the sultry hours of June . 57 

Along a grim and granite shore. 79 

Aloof upon the day’s immeasured dome. 85 

A man went a-hunting at Reigate . 359 

A Robin Redbreast in a cage. 363 

A snake came to my water-trough. 145 

As ’round and ’round he spins the wheel. 347 

A sweet, deep sense of mystery filled the wood. 307 

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town. 259 

At eight o’clock in the evening. 351 

At sight of him the birds berate. 323 

B 

Backward among the dusky years. 22 

Beat, little breast, against the wires. 341 

Behind the board fence at the banker’s house. 215 

Below my window goes the cattle train. 174 

Birds all the sunny day. 37^ 

Bound, Hare, bound! . 3 12 

Brave dogs of St. Bernard, companions dear. 395 

Braves! that go out with your guides and gold and the 

polished tube of steel. 3 2 4 

Burly, dozing humble-bee . 189 


419 





































420 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

c 

Children of the elemental mother. 81 

“ Colleen, under the thorn-tree . 1 73 

Columba, 0 Columba, come again . 70 

Come hither, sweet Robin. 359 

Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling ! . 94 

Confuse me not with impious things. 193 

Coward,—of heroic size. 214 

Crash and off and away together. 326 

D 

Deed you evra see Joy. 109 

Don’t hunt him with a sling or gun. 314 

“ Don’t pick all the flowers! ” cried Daisy one day. 381 

Down in the city’s market-place. 194 

Do you know the little woodmouse. 152 

E 

Edward found a homeless dog. 362 

Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds. 331 

F 

Farmlands about the marsh are dreary. 7 

’F I was er horse I’d hate t’ wear. 370 

For a Little Brown Dog, who “sees” me down. 107 

From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn. 251 

G 

Gamarra is a dainty steed. 92 

God thought it worth His while to make a bird—. 299 

Go lift him gently from the wheels. .. 230 

Guarded within the old red wall’s embrace. 7 

H 

Half loving-kindliness and half disdain. 129 

Hark! do you hear that note, sustained and clear?. 60 

Has Pegasus, then, visited the earth. 99 

Have you been catching of fish, Tom Noddy?. 374 

Hear the chorus in that tie-up, runch, gerrunch, and runch 

and runch!. 165 

He broods upon the highest perch. 336 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands. 84 
































INDEX OF FIRST LINES 421 


He is nothing but a blue-tit. 375 

Here’s a health to the birds one and all! . 48 

Here’s a meadow full of sunshine. 56 

Here’s a sleepy little seed. 384 

Her lyric laughter ripples down the street. 16 

He sleeps where he would wish, in easy call. 396 

He tore the curtains yesterday. 116 

He was a gash and faithfu’ tyke . 113 

He was lost!—not a shade of doubt of that. 120 

He wasn’t rich; he wasn’t great. 18 

He was sitting on the doorstep as I went strolling by. 103 

He was such a little puppy, in a window of a shop. 115 

High noon it was, and the hot khamseen’s breath. 281 

His dam lay, powerless now to help. 334 

His stature tall, his body long. 113 

His summer fled, but winter’s chill. 53 

Ho, brother! Art thou prisoned too?. 337 

How joyously the young sea-mew. 82 

How oft against the sunset sky or moon. 78 

How silent comes the water round that bend. 204 

I 

I am quite sure he thinks that I am God. 105 

I am the mule, from ears which catch the gale. 138 

I cannot brook thy gaze, beloved bird. 343 

I dreamed that I was Francis of Assisi . 301 

If ever I see. 376 

If I lie quite still in their net. 193 

If you would happy company win. 67 

I go a-gunning, but take no gun. 311 

I had a little Doggy that used to sit and beg. 361 

I had a little pony. 358 

I have no dog, but it must be. 106 

I have shut up my soul with vehemence . 4 

I hear a sudden cry of pain!. 322 

I know a little bird that sings. 52 

I know, where Hampshire fronts the Wight. 267 

I like little Pussy . 369 

I love thee, pious ox; a gentle feeling. 181 

I met my mates in the morning (and oh, but I am old!).... 203 

I’m workin’ this week in the wood-lot; a hearty old job, 

you can bet . 168 

In a cool curving world he lies . 205 

In a pasture toward the sun, O my brothers. 177 

In dreams I see the Dromedary still. 333 

In early spring I watched two sparrows build. 56 












































422 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Inhuman man! curse on thy barbarous art. 320 

Innocent eyes not ours. 187 

In the glow of their youth they have come, and they pass ... 229 

I remember the cleared streets, the strange suspense. 95 

I saw eight royal tigers in a ring. 353 

I saw with open eyes. 43 

I saw you hunched and shivering on the stones. 225 

I should not take cither the biggest or the most picturesque 

tree to illustrate it. 39 

I sing of a dog, the dearest dog. 112 

I sit among the hoary trees. 148 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he. 256 

Is there not something in the pleading eye. 14 

I think that I shall never see. 28 

I think the thrush’s voice is more like God’s. 58 

It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not 

where . 3 

It’s a jolly sort of season, is the spring—is the spring. 171 

It’s in Connacht in Munster that yourself might travel wide 162 

It tried to get from out the cage. 338 

It was a little yellow dog, a wistful thing to see. 117 

It was born behind bars, but it knew it had wings. 338 

It was the rosy flush of dawn. 383 

It was the season, when through all the land. 273 

I’ve enjoyed the chase to-day. 307 

I’ve plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from 

the tree. 50 

I wasted a morning!. 29 

I watch you basking sleepy in the light. 129 

I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain— 222 

I wonder if they like it—being trees?. 31 

I would the scene might flash before your eye. 298 

J 

Just four hundred years ago. 288 

K 

King Solomon, as I have heard. 255 

King Solomon was the wisest man. 4 

L 

Let her creep to earth again, my children. 315 

Let us be much with Nature; not as they. 10 

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines. 37 


































INDEX OF FIRST LINES 423 

Little children, never give. 363 

Little dog of amusement zoo. 353 

Little enchanted leaf. 

Little Gustava sits in the sun. 365 

Little Lamb, who made thee?. 37x 

Long and grey and gaunt he lies. 114 

Look at this ball of intractable fluff . 55 

Lowly the soul that waits. 389 

M 

Mary had a little lamb. 360 

Men say unfriendly words of you, poor birds!. 61 

My beautiful, my beautiful, that standest meekly by. 89 

My Daddy is the truest friend. 372 

My dog and I, the hills we know. 108 

My merry-hearted comrade on a day. 393 

My Pensioners who daily. 46 

N 

Near this spot. 397 

Night held me as I crawled and scrambled near. 232 

No matter; we are only mules. 250 

Not one blithe leap of welcome?. 390 

Now is the winter of my discontent. 133 

Now, Tudens, you sit on this knee—and ’scuse. 282 

O 

Oak . I am the Roof-tree and the Keel. 35 

O birds, 3'our perfect virtues bring. 47 

Och, it pulls at me heart to see you afflicted. 155 

O Earth! thou hast not any wind that blows. 18 

Of all beasts he learned the language. 364 

Of all old memories that cluster round my heart. 161 

Of all the birds from East to West. 51 

Old fellow-loiterer, whither wouldst thou go? . 150 

O lonely trumpeter, coasting down the sky. 316 

Once, morn by morn, when snowy mountains flam’d. 217 

Once on a time I used to dream. 14 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain. 286 

Once they ploughed the fruitful field. 235 

On Christmas night at Bethlehem . 139 

One day a statistician great. 133 

Only a dying horse! Pull off the gear. 237 

On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn. 248 








































424 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

On the cross-beams, under the Old South bell. 71 

On the sable wall your great skull gleams. 216 

Our Dinah is a Persian cat. 368 

Out from the aerie beloved we flew. 319 

Out near the links where I go to play. 68 

Over my garden . 191 

Over the hills with terror-cry. 318 

P 

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance. 332 

R 

Rash was the hand, and foul the deed. 155 

Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise. 194 

S 

Say what you like... 366 

She leaves the puddle where she drinks. 161 

Shoe the horse, and shoe the mare. 359 

Sir Bat-Ears was a dog of birth. 263 

Small things and humble greatest lessons hold. 11 

Soft lies the turf on those who find their rest. 396 

So must he be who, in the crowded street. 105 

Speak gently, Spring, and made no sudden sound. 295 

Stately, kindly, lordly friend. 130 

Still half in dream, upon the stair I hear. ill 

Strange that so small mortality should leave. 394 

T 

Taffy, the topaz-coloured cat. 127 

Take any brid, and put it in a cage. 337 

The Boy wears a grin. 119 

The chickadee in the apple-tree . 63 

The day was set to a beautiful theme. 192 

“ The dog! ” a friend exclaimed ; and hearing there. 121 

The friendly cow all red and white. 371 

The furs you wear are rich and rare. 297 

The gardener’s cat’s called Mignonette. 127 

The high trees are honest folk. 33 

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-King. 72 

Their rugs are sodden, their heads are down, their tails are 

turned to the storm. 240 

The little tree I planted out. 33 




































INDEX OF FIRST LINES 425 

The Lord Almighty chose to give. 157 

The man who goes into the fight. 238 

The moon shears up on Tahoe now. 222 

The nestling church at Ovingdean. 187 

The nightingales of Flanders. 252 

Then the little Hiawatha. 364 

The poor earth was so winter-marred. 59 

The purple of early November. 27 

There came to my window. 360 

There is a bird I know so well. 62 

There is a public garden in Bordeaux. 137 

There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree .... . 377 

These are your brothers; listening you have heard. 15 

The skies yielded up their bounty unto the earth. 19 

The sky is gray with rain that will not fall. 331 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound. 269 

The trees are God’s great alphabet. 30 

The white wolves belled on the ermine’s trail. 295 

The wind blows east, the wind blows storm . 188 

The wounded bird sped on with shattered wing. 317 

They are not those who used to feed us. 316 

They killed a child to please the Gods. 223 

Thistle and darnel and dock grew there. 140 

Though fear’d by many, scorn’d by all. 197 

Thou little god within the brook. 205 

Three little feathery owls flew overhead. 74 

Through Tanglewood the thrushes trip. 58 

Through the green twilight of a hedge. 54 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright. 221 

Time was, and not so long ago, as men count time. 233 

’Tis midnight in the forest cold and bleak. 297 

To-day hell chuckled at another lie. 104 

To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees ... 27 

To heal mine aching moods. 32 

Trees are astronomers, benign and hoary. 34 

’Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg—. 242 

“ Tweet-tweet-tweet! ” sang the canary. 362 

Twenty of us ridin’ bronks, headed for the war. 234 

’Twould ring the bells of Heaven. 13 

U 

Under the alders, along the brooks. 69 

Up from the South, at break of day. 246 

Up in the north if thou sail with me. 3 21 

Upon a viol of carven jade. 196 












































426 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

v 

Vogelweid the Minnesinger. 291 

W 

Want to trade me, do you, mistah?. 97 

We are the pets of men. 95 

Weary, they plod the ploughlands of the World. 181 

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie . 153 

What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird? .... 335 

What great yoked brutes with briskets low. 183 

What was our share in the sinning. 236 

What wonder strikes the curious, while he views. 196 

When all the ground with snow is white. 378 

When fishes flew and forests walked. 137 

When God made man to live his hour. 8 

When I sailed out of Baltimore. 176 

When I was a child I used to roam. 357 

When I was once in Baltimore. 175 

When Spring is in the fields that stained your wing. 340 

When walkin’ down a city street. 212 

When you go to get a drink. 361 

Where shaken shallows multiply the moon . 84 

Whither, midst falling dew. 76 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 77 

Winter is here. II 

Within mankind’s duration, so they say. 43 

With slaughtering guns the unwearied fowler roves. 317 

,With thrill of birds adown the dawn there came. 122 

Worn-out and useless, lone, he stands and dreams. 89 

Y 

Yes, you lie there in state unearthly-solemn. 37 

You call them “ beasts that perish,” and you say. 13 

You shall not be overbold. 64 

You try your best to slip away. 217 


































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